


tomorrow will not be too late

by what_on_io



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Angst, Depictions of injury, Drug Use, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Past Abuse, Post-Game(s), Serious Injuries, adventures in the Commonwealth for lone, but nothing happens in that regard don't worry, contract breaking fun, ghoulfriends running a bar together, i don't even know what this is, mentions of consent issues, they're gonna fall in luuurve, you don't even need to read it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-02-16 08:06:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13049946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_on_io/pseuds/what_on_io
Summary: Lane is pacing again. Charon can hear his heavy footfalls a room over, camped out in his -his! - bed with the reading lamp on. Not that he's getting much reading done. Lane's left his entire library out for Charon's perusal, but the tension thrumming through the thin metal walls has set his jaw on edge. Even when the boy's solved the Wasteland's problems almost singlehanded, Lane has found something new to be stressed about. It leaks out of him, flows like waves, makes Charon's own temples ache with a phantom symbiosis. The only headaches he ever gets anymore.Lane never accepts failure, except from Charon.The Lone Wanderer wants Charon's freedom, perhaps more than Charon himself does. He decides to venture out into the Commonwealth to find it, leaving Charon in Gob's ~capable~ hands.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Let me preface this by saying, you probably don't want to read it. I'm embarrassed to be posting this. But Gob and Charon are gonna be so cute together, and there's gonna be a lot of angst and crap but they're gonna make it! I will aim to update this in the next week or so. Even though I doubt anyone will scar their eyeballs with this.
> 
> Title from e.e. cummings.

Lane is pacing again. Charon can hear his heavy footfalls a room over, camped out in his - _his!_ \- bed with the reading lamp on. Not that he's getting much reading done. Lane's left his entire library out for Charon's perusal, but the tension thrumming through the thin metal walls has set his jaw on edge. Even when the boy's solved the Wasteland's problems almost singlehanded, Lane has found something new to be stressed about. It leaks out of him, flows like waves, makes Charon's own temples ache with a phantom symbiosis. The only headaches he ever gets anymore.

Lane never accepts failure, except from Charon.

He thinks about getting up and going to talk to the boy, but that would mean leaving warm bedsheets and repeating the same tired platitudes he's offered several times over. _There's nothing you can do. No way out of it. It's not your fault, and it's not your problem_. Lane ignores them all, often outright shushes Charon and then apologises for the order, offers him caps to get out of his hair for a while. As though Charon needs _caps_.

He does get up eventually, but only because his bladder is burning. He relieves himself in the bathroom Lane insisted they share instead of going outside like most employers would bid him. When he finishes up, Lane has spilled out into the corridor and paces there instead.

"Charon. You're still up. Shouldn't you be sleeping? It's..." The time eludes him, so Charon glances at the old wall clock instead.  
  
"A little past three."

"Yeah. That. Aren't you tired?"

"No." Charon's hasn't been a man of many words since before Ahzrukhal, and a year of Lane's leadership hasn't changed much in that regard. _Speak freely_ was never going to be easy after decades of enforced silence.  
  
"Right. Well. Sorry if I'm keeping you awake. I've been reading for hours - nothing seems useful that we haven't already tried."  
  
"I have told you. It cannot be undone. The contract is absolute."  
  
"I know, big guy," Lane sighs, patting Charon's shoulder with a hand that dictates he should not be the one calling Charon big. Lane's huge - filled out since the Vault, so his muscles strain against the fabric of his clothes, and women throw themselves at him in bars. "Look, there's gotta be a solution out there somewhere. I'm not giving up."  
  
"You have tried everything."  
  
It's true, or nearly. Lane's been to Doctor Barrows in Underworld, he's trailed up to the Lincoln Memorial to talk to the freed Temple of the Union slaves. He talked it over with Pinkerton in Rivet City, and with the Brotherhood of Steel, although those bastards weren't a lot of help. Paradise Falls has been emptied by Lane's own hands, and Charon's contract still holds him tightly as ever in its vice grip.  
  
He will never be free. He accepted that long ago.  
  
"Everything here, perhaps," Lane murmurs, looking pensive. He reaches a wide arm to scratch at his chin, where five o' clock shadow is beginning to show.  
  
"You should rest," Charon tells him. "It is late."  
  
"I'll sleep later. I think I have a plan." Oh no. Lane's plans are never good, not in the early hours at least. Charon cannot bring himself to berate an employer, though, so he pads silently back to his room and lies diagonal across the bed, the only way he can fit. Lane's pacing retreats downstairs, and when Charon wakes, he's gone from the house.

* * *

 

Ahzrukhal rarely left the Ninth Circle, but when he did, Charon never got to go with him. This usually left him dreading Ahzrukhal's journeys more than he despised the months his employer spent in the bar, because the contract dictates he protect him, and how could he protect a man who insisted on leaving Charon behind? He suspects Ahzrukhal knew this, and left more frequently because of it. Stupid idea, of course - why bother owning a contracted killing machine if you didn’t even use it? But then, Charon reasoned, Ahzukhal thrived on his misery. He’d laugh as someone was sticking a dagger in his back, as long as he got to see Charon’s pained face while it happened.  
  
Charon’s latest migraine began as soon as his employer packed up a tattered leather briefcase of chems and headed out of Underworld. He wouldn’t leave Charon in charge, of course - a slave bodyguard wasn’t made for tending bar, anyway, it put off the customers. He stayed in his corner and stood guard, one eye on the door and one on the bar, watching Crowley pour pints for the drunks, occasionally straightening up to eye Charon warily. The bastard never was fond of him, and Ahzukhal hadn’t left Charon with orders to obey the new bartender, so there’s no comfortable buffer of a contract between them. The only standing orders he _had_ left, in fact, aside from his usual _don’t move unless there’s trouble_ were _no sleeping, no talking_ , and _no food_. He’d be back in four days, if the deal went well.  
  
Charon’s days didn’t change much. In fact, a souped-up Protectron could do his job. The three decades he’d spent in the Ninth Circle tended to blur together in his mind. He knew his corner by heart - the cracks in the ceiling, the peeling paint on the walls and the flaking curls at the bottom. The old bloodstain - his, probably - on the floorboards. Sometimes he entertained himself by counting bullet holes in the nearby walls. Two hundred and six, by his last count.  
  
The only reprieve he got from the corner was if a customer got too rowdy, or a bar fight broke out. He’d give it five seconds, counting in Mississippis, and then he’d shove off the wall and go to yank the drunks apart. If Ahzrukhal nodded at him from behind the bar, he’d even get to throw them downstairs, which meant seeing a room other than the Ninth Circle. Those were good days.  
  
Mostly, Charon waited. Waited to see if his boss would allow him a couple hours of stolen sleep in the back room, which he’d only do on quiet nights. Charon would sometimes get three hours’ sleep a week, if he was lucky. He’d stretch himself out on the rotten floorboards, surrounded by ale barrels and empty bottles of spirits, pillow his head on his arm, and let dreams flood his mind for just a while. Those nights were even better than the times he’d been allowed to glimpse the main stairs.  
  
“Charon! Little help here?” Crowley yelled. He was struggling with customers, people heaped up at either end of the bar, clamouring for drinks. Charon ignored him, folded his arms across his chest and looked straight ahead. “Charon, you lazy bastard, get over here!”  
  
The headache at his temples got gradually worse with every mile Ahzrukhal travelled away from Underworld, every near-death disaster he scrambled his way out of. The pain at least centred Charon, kept his icy focus on scanning for threats and not on Crowley’s whiny drawl. When the other man stormed over to his corner and yanked Charon by his upper arm, though, Charon reacted without thinking, a hand immediately raised and clamped down over Crowley’s, squeezing the fingers latched there until they relented.  
  
His brain delivered a swift, harsh punishment for disobedience of a direct order a moment later, nearly sending him to his knees with the pain of it. Crippled, Charon could only glare at Crowley through watering eyes while his head throbbed with stabbing pains. He felt as though someone had struck a knife through his left eye socket and twisted.  
  
“Christ, what now? You having a seizure or something?”  
  
He couldn’t answer, of course. Just concentrated on breathing through the agony currently crushing his skull, white hot tendrils of it writhing through his brain and to the base of his neck. _Fuck_. He should have stayed still, should have let the other man put hands on him. Anything but this _misery_.  
  
“Fuck’s sake. Forget it.” Crowley moved back through the sea of customers and hopped over the bar, leaving Charon alone again. The pain lasted another solid five minutes, then started to recede, a tide going out. The last pulse of his torment left him through his right eye, and the black spots dotting his vision cleared until he could see the bar in focus again. Exhaustion tore at his muscles.  
  
Minutes or hours later, when the swarm of people had their fill of alcohol and left to pursue other vices, a familiar face entered the bar. Charon immediately lowered his gaze, as though this could stop Gob from approaching him, although if he knew one thing about the other man, it was that he was persistent. On cue, Gob sidled up to the corner next to Charon and scraped the chair out with an angry squeal, without ordering a drink. Charon prayed Crowley wouldn’t notice, but the other man was thankfully busy siphoning caps from the register.  
  
“Wondered what was wrong when you didn’t show up last night,” Gob said. Charon stared straight ahead. “Should’ve known Ahzrukhal had left again.”  
  
There was blissful silence for a moment, before Gob broke it once more. “Waited for an hour, then went to bed. I was pissed at you, even though I know that’s not fair. I know how hard it is for you to get away. Just wanted to talk to you, though.”  
  
Charon considered that an exaggeration. He was rarely allowed to speak when they met - only if Ahzrukhal had forgotten to revoke his talking privileges after grilling Charon about some shady clientele or asking who’d stolen vodka from behind the bar when neither of them were looking. Usually he sat while Gob chattered on about the day’s events.  
  
“Seeing you once a month isn’t enough,” Gob continued. “I know you can’t get away more than that. It’s just… when you don’t show, it’s worse. Then I have to wait another month.”  
  
Their system - if you could call it that - wasn’t foolproof, Charon assumed Gob knew that. Each month, when Ahzrukhal deemed his sizeable stack of caps large enough to warrant replenishing his bar supply, he’d send Charon down to the entrance hall to trade with Quinn. These were the only times he’d set foot outside the Ninth Circle bar the rare stair-throwing instances, and thus his only opportunity to glimpse anyone who didn’t trust that his employer’s drinks weren’t poisoned. Gob usually hung out at his mother’s hotel, Charon vaguely knew, but one day he’d come downstairs to find the younger man perched on the lowest step, watching out for someone. Gob was surprisingly determined to find out what Ahzrukhal’s lackey’s deal was, and waited out there every time Charon was allowed to leave.  
  
“Well, anyway. Sorry for barging in on you like this. I just… wanted to check you were okay.” Gob sighed, then stuck a hand in his jacket pocket to withdraw something small, wrapped in old newspaper. “Here you go. Brought you some food. It’s molerat meat, I think. Greta’s putting it in a stew.”  
  
He put the package down on the table and scraped the chair back once more, scrubbing his palms down his jeans before moving to stand. “I’m sorry it’s not more.”  
  
Gob left, and Charon allowed his eyes to follow him out the door. Crowley risked a glance up at Charon to find him alone again, and went back to sneaking caps from the tip jar into his pocket.  
  
The meat went untouched until Crowley tossed it in the garbage the next morning.

* * *

 

Lane is still gone by afternoon. Charon paces the house, alternating between flicking through some of the books his employer has left on the coffee table, and peering out of the window in search of him. Logically, he could step right out onto the street and go in search of the boy. Logically, he probably should, because what if Lane’s wandered out of Megaton and gotten ambushed by raiders or slavers or worse?  
  
There’s no headache, though, and Lane can very much handle himself, so Charon stays put. He heats pork n’ beans at the stove and eats it from the can, because Lane’s told him to eat and drink and sleep whenever he wants, and Charon isn’t going to question that kind of order (or any kind, really, but still). Words can be taken back as soon as they’re out in the open, so he’ll take what he can while he can.  
  
“Would you like a refreshing glass of water to go with that, sir?” The irritating robot butler’s back, unfolding itself from its charging port to whisk metal arms at Charon. He accepts the offer of a drink despite how uncomfortable the Mr. Handy makes him, takes the cold glass of purified water and gulps it down. Anything to distract him from the gnawing absence of his employer.  
  
Lane does return before dusk, just as Charon’s getting restless. He’d forgotten what restless was, back in the Ninth Circle, but he’s rediscovered it beside Lane’s boundless, erratic energy. The damn stuff’s catching.  
  
“Charon!” Lane greets excitedly. Charon would assume he’s been at the Saloon, drinking himself into a happy medium between oblivion and sleep, but there’s no telltale stench of hops on his breath, and usually Lane invites him along anyway.  
  
“You return,” Charon states unnecessarily. Lane beams at him, the smile stretching his wide jaw even wider.  
  
“Yeah. With a plan. A man with a plan, once again, Charon!” This is accompanied by a light punch to the shoulder, not enough to warrant his usual mutter of _physical violence invalidates the contract_ , but enough to feel the enthusiasm with which it was thrown. Lane heaves himself down on the couch and pats the seat beside him for Charon to join.  
  
“I assume you are still talking about breaking my contract.”  
  
“Yep. Told you I wasn’t giving up that easily. And, thing is, I found something out. I went to see Moira, and she mentioned- well, reminded me, really. About someone that might be able to help.”  
  
“Yes?” Charon asks. He’s not getting excited. The contract cannot be broken. Two and a half centuries of trying to find any loophole, any out, has left him without hope.  
  
“Y’know back in Rivet City? The whole android thing?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And the woman, the one from the Railroad?”  
  
Charon does not like where this is going. “Yes.”  
  
“Well. They specialise in freeing synths, apparently. There’s this huge underground operation, against something called the Institute. Synths are, like, androids who’re made to carry out tasks for-“  
  
“I know what a synth is,” Charon interrupts, and silently berates himself for it. He’s heard stories, though, back in the bar, and before that somewhere, in the earlier reaches of his memory, though he can’t remember where or when.  
  
Lane doesn’t seem to pick up on his insubordination. “Right. They've researched memory wiping, and retrieval, and they're well versed on brainwashing and, I guess indoctrination. And, uh, only snag is that their headquarters are in the Commonwealth.”  
  
“The Commonwealth,” Charon echoes.  
  
“Yeah. Boston. Somewhere there.”  
  
“And you intend for us to travel all the way to Boston, on what is most likely a wild goose chase?”  
  
“Well, yeah,” Lane grins, scratching absently at the back of his wide neck. “I know it might not work, but… we have a shot, Charon. You could be free.”  
  
“I do not think that is a good idea.”  
  
“I assumed you’d say that. Which is why I thought of a plan B. You could stay here.”  
  
Charon visibly pales. “You know I do not… operate well, left to my own devices.” Excruciating head pains aside, the contract’s hold on him gets stronger every day he is away from his employer. The one time he’d been left for more than a fortnight, Charon’s mental faculties had deserted him and he’d been left rigid in the middle of a cellar somewhere, unable to move an inch without verbal permission.  
  
“I know. I’ve thought of that, too. I, uh - only if you’re comfortable with it, of course - thought about asking Gob if he’d mind taking over your contract. Just… for a bit. Unless you want to stay with him, if my plan doesn’t work. Or you can come with me. Or I could give it to someone else, someone you trust more-“ Lane cuts off, shrugging, rubbing his palms together in his lap. It is rare Charon gets to see him nervous.  
  
“Gob is… adequate,” Charon says, trying not to sound too eager. Lane probably already knows about their not-so-illicit liaisons by now, though - he’d given Charon free reign to come and go as he pleases, and it pleased him to take up a seat at the Saloon after Moriarty took a bullet to the brain, even if his presence scared away the customers.  
  
“Right. Great! So… I can go, then? To Boston?”  
  
“You do not require my permission.”  
  
“I’d like your blessing, though.”  
  
“Then yes. You have it, of course. You will be careful?” The last part is added doubtfully, and Charon’s gaze stays fixed on the dirty rug in front of him.  
  
“Of course I will. I’ll find the Railroad, and I’ll come back to you.”  
  
“You do not have to do this for me,” Charon tells him. “Even if my freedom were possible, I am not entirely sure I deserve it. Or that I would know what to do with it.”  
  
They’ve had this discussion a lot, too, and he already anticipates Lane’s response. “You deserve to be free, Charon. And happy. We’ll figure it out together.”  
  
“If you say so.”  
  
“I do. Okay! We’re really doing this! I’m going to the Commonwealth! Maybe they have working cars there. I could learn to drive, like they did before the war. Or maybe they’ll have horses-”  
  
Charon doubts the Commonwealth is very much different from the Wasteland, but he refrains from saying so. Lane has stopped buzzing with restless energy now and instead thrums with impatience, which is fractionally better, he decides. Even if the boy is going to get himself killed out there.


	2. Chapter 2

Lane’s last night in the Capital Wasteland is spent curled on the living room floor, poring over a map of the Commonwealth that he procured from Moira. The woman’s irritating as hell, but she knows how to get quality pre-war materials. Lane rubs the old page between his index finger and thumb as he reads, feeling old world grit on his skin, shuffling occasionally to better access the lower corners.   
  
The map’s in good nick. There are a few added scribbles over certain routes, declaring NO-GO ZONE - SUPER-MUTANTS, ROAD BLOCKED or TOO MANY FERALS HERE. Lane adds the notes to his old Pip-Boy map, humming to himself. Any information is useful, even if potentially outdated. By his calculations, it should take him a little over three weeks to hike to Boston, accounting for rest stops and incidents on the road. Not bad at all, he tells himself.  
  
Charon retires to bed at midnight, leaving Lane alone with his thoughts. It’s been a long time since he travelled by himself. Charon has been in his employ for almost a year now, and Lane’s almost forgotten how it feels to be navigator, traveller and defender all at once. He fears he’s grown complacent. At least he’ll have Dogmeat for company.   
  
Can he do this? He’s come so far from the weird little Vault kid he started out as, the one who was so used to working under his father’s thumb that it took weeks for him to realise he was actually capable of making his own decisions. He’s grown into his body, grown muscle in the places that used to be soft, grown hair over his smooth patches. He’s calloused and big and experienced now, but a two week trip with no company but a dog is still a biggie. Shit. Maybe he’s making a mistake after all.  
  
But he can’t just give up on Charon. The guy’s been a godsend, even if they started out on treacherous footing. Distrust has evolved into easy companionship - at least on Lane’s behalf, and he hopes Charon would agree - and if Lane knows anything, it’s this: Charon deserves a life beyond what he’s been given.   
  
So there’s not much else for it. He has to go, for Charon's sake. And, if he's honest, Lane wants to see more of the world before he takes a lethal bullet in some inevitable firefight somewhere down the line.   
  
He’s really doing this, then.

* * *

 

"You nervous?" Lane asks the next morning as he walks with Charon over to the Saloon. Charon eyes him sideways, considering. He's half-certain Gob will say yes. Although that leaves room for an equal amount of doubt, so-  
  
"I'm sure it'll be fine. Gob's a good guy, and you two get along. Right?"  
  
Lane's trying to reassure himself, Charon realises. They've both seen how quickly people change out in the Wastes, how power goes to people’s heads. They were both at Paradise Falls when it fell. Charon can't claim the same will never happen to Gob - or to Lane himself, for that matter - but he trusts them both. _Bet his life?  
_  
"Yes," he replies. Lane looks worried.  
  
"Am I making a huge mistake, Charon?"   
  
Charon does wonder. "Probably. But perhaps one you need to make, to put this matter to rest."  
  
"If anything goes wrong, try to get a letter to me, okay? Shouldn't have a problem finding a courier out here. I'll always come back for you if you need me."  
  
Charon doesn't doubt it.   
  
The Saloon hasn't opened for business yet, so they have to knock and wait. Gob stumbles to the door in just a t-shirt and boxers, what's left of his hair sticking up at funny angles. He looks faintly confused at seeing the two of them in his doorway, then afraid.  
  
"Has something happened? Is the town on fire? Is someone dying?" he rasps, voice thicker than usual, as though he's been dragged from a deep sleep. "Should I wake Nova?"  
  
"God, no, Gob! Where the hell did that come from?" Lane asks, chuckling. Gob's face regains a bit of its colour.  
  
"Sorry. Sorry, just- Usually there's trouble if you come knocking at my door in the early hours. Sorry-"  
  
"It's okay, Gob. No problem. I just - I mean, we just - wanted to talk to you about something. In private, if you don't mind?" Lane's already pushing through the entrance, hoisting himself up onto the bar with a grunt. "Sorry we woke you."  
  
"Don't worry about it," Gob says with the voice of someone who has seen many an interrupted night's sleep. "What was it you wanted to talk about?"  
  
Charon looks down at his boots so he doesn't have to watch Lane squirm. There's an old bloodstain not unlike the one in his old corner branded into the wooden floorboards, dirty red. He hopes it isn't Gob’s.  
  
"I'm going away for a while," Lane eventually says, and Charon finally dares to look up. Gob's hesitant smile falls a little, his own gaze flickering to Charon for just a second before he forces it back to his employer.  
  
"Oh. R-right."  
  
"Yeah. To Boston."  
  
"Boston? That's- that's ages away!" The alarm's more pronounced now, frightened eyes firmly fixed on Charon. Perhaps Gob would miss him, if he were to leave too. Their interactions have never really been allowed to go much beyond Charon's whiskey order and the day's events when the bar was so crowded with customers, and the few times he'd stayed after closing Charon simply hadn't known what to say. Centuries of practiced silence has scuppered any hope of pleasant small talk or deep emotional connection, he thinks.  
  
"Yeah. I'm looking for someone who can help break Charon's contract."  
  
Something shifts in Gob's expression then; his watery eyes widen a little, and his wobbly smile looks a bit more genuine. "Really? That's great. Really... great."  
  
"Thing is, Charon would rather stay here. So I was kinda hoping you wouldn't mind holding onto his contract for a while. Until I get back."  
  
 _If I get back_  is what Lane's not saying.   
  
"No!" Gob yells suddenly, startling the three of them. He scuttles back behind the bar and busies himself with putting out beer mats so he doesn't have to look at them. "No way. I'm sorry, but- I can't do that."  
  
"Why not?" Lane prods, like he doesn't already know the answer. Charon strides over, puts a gentle hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Perhaps we shouldn't press."  
  
"Look, guys, I really am sorry. I want to help. I do. But I can't hold your contract. I’ve seen the bad end of a belt too many times to get involved in- No offence, Lane.”  
  
" _I am not a slave_ ," Charon pre-empts, although everyone in the room knows that's only half true.  
  
"Sorry," Gob repeats. "Charon, I... I don't want you to hate me."  
  
"I could not," Charon echoes.   
  
Gob scrubs a hand anxiously across his forehead. “You really could. It’s not a good idea.”  
  
“Would you hurt me? Purposefully?” Charon prompts, watching Gob go still.   
  
“Of course not. Never.”  
  
“Then what’s the problem?” Lane interrupts. “You’re friends, right? And it’d only be temporary, a few months maybe. And Gob - I guess you know what not to do.”  
  
Something passes over Gob’s face that reminds Charon just who put that bullet in Moriarty’s brain, just who handed over the deed to the Saloon to Gob and Nova. Lane might not have mentioned it since that day, but Charon can imagine what it’s like to have that hanging over him. Indentured servitude never really goes away.   
  
“You do not have to,” Charon says, meeting Lane’s eyes briefly in warning. “It is not your obligation. I will go with Lane to Boston.”  
  
“Yeah,” Lane echoes. “No biggie, Gob. Honestly.” He too looks acutely aware of the sudden power imbalance, scrambles away from it like it could physically reach out to grab him. They both turn to leave, Lane’s hand already on the doorknob. Scrambling further.   
  
“Wait!” Gob cries as Charon reaches the door. “I don’t want you to go. It’s a hell of a trek to the Commonwealth. Is this really what you want, Charon? To hand your contract-“ _your life_ , he doesn’t say, “-over to me?”  
  
“It is.”  
  
“Then… I guess I’ll take it.”  
  
Charon tries not to smile, and Lane fails for him. “Thanks, Gobbie. You’re a pal.”  
  
“Just don’t come runnin’ back to me when this all goes to hell, yeah?” Gob grumbles. He wrings his hands anxiously in front of his body. “How do we do this? Is there a ceremony or something? Do you want caps?”  
  
“No! Nothing like that. I, uh, I have the contract here…” He rummages around in a pocket of the armour he wears, the chest plate a little too small for the broad plains of his abdomen, and produces a folded bit of paper that controls Charon’s every waking - and sleeping - move. His life.   
  
“Here. Now you take it.”   
  
Gob’s fingers are butterfly nervous as he reaches out for the paper. With one last brave look towards Charon, he plucks it from Lane’s grip, and something tightens in Charon’s chest.   
  
“You are my employer and I will do as you command,” Charon says. Gob pales. “I follow you for good or for ill. I will protect your life with my own. Physical violence invalidates the contract, unless I have failed to do my duty, in which case-“  
  
“Okay, Charon, I get it-“  
  
“In which case, physical punishment is acceptable.”  
  
“I won’t hurt you,” Gob says. His fingers have gone slack around the paper, and he’s watching Lane warily, like he’s going to start laughing at what a great prank he’s pulled.   
  
“As you wish,” Charon mumbles.   
  
“Okay! I’d better get going, then. Here are my keys to the house - I obviously won’t be using it - so you can stay there if you want. Wadsworth charges himself automatically, and he can give you water if you need it. There’s hot water for the shower, too. Dogmeat’s coming with me.” He thrusts his keychain towards Gob, who flinches back slightly.   
  
“I can’t take your house, kid.”  
  
“Sure you can. You’d only be borrowing it, anyway. You’d be doing me a favour, keeping the place up.”  
  
“I…”  
  
“Gob, just take them. You don’t have to stay there, but it’s best you keep the keys in case of an emergency, right?” At this, Gob reluctantly pockets them with a metallic jangle. Lane beams.   
  
“You’re amazing, Gob. Really,” he says. “Charon, are you okay?”  
  
Charon contemplates this. His stomach has twisted in the usual way it does when he changes employer, but this time it is only as though a fist is gently squeezing his insides. His head is only slightly throbbing. All in all, not a bad start.   
  
Gob hasn’t given him permission to speak, but he hasn’t forbidden it either, so he risks it.  
  
“I am fine.”  
  
“Great. Okay. I’m, uh, gonna go, then. I’ve got a map, and water, and stimpaks. And my gun. Yeah. Okay. We got this.”  
  
“How are you getting to Boston, kid?”  
  
“Figured I’d hitch a ride with a caravan part of the way. Then hike it.”  
  
“You stay safe out there. World’s a bad place.”  
  
“Don’t I know it. You two be careful, y’hear me? I don’t wanna come home to find it’s been a wasted trip and you’re both dead.”  
  
“I don’t know, Lane, some of those customers get _real_  rowdy…”  
  
Lane laughs, and the sound makes something pang in Charon’s chest. A side-effect of his contract exchanging hands, he’s sure.   
  
“Bye, guys. I’ll see you on the other side.”  
  
With that, Lane turns and leaves, Saloon door thumping shut behind him. Charon becomes painfully aware that he has no idea what to say. Or indeed whether he is really permitted to say anything.   
  
“Weird morning, huh?” Gob asks. Charon goes with a nod. “I, uh, I gotta finish setting the place up. Then, uh, get dressed. Nova’s still sleeping. I try not to wake her, to be honest, she still hunts for the Jet while I’m not looking. Moira said she’s gonna try and get her some Addictol, but it’s hard to come by…” Gob keeps on babbling while he scrubs the counter down, checks there’s enough liquor stacked behind the bar to last the morning. Charon watches him with mild interest, feeling suddenly like he’s back in the Ninth Circle. He half expects Gob to relegate him to a corner and order him to look menacing.  
  
“Charon? You sure you’re okay?” Gob asks, finally looking up from his work.   
  
“Yes,” Charon answers. He cannot lie to Gob, but he can paint the truth a little rosy.  
  
“Feel free to, uh, come and go. You don’t have to stick around watching me pour drinks all day. My room’s up the stairs and on the right, if you wanna sleep for a bit, or, I mean, you’re probably more comfortable back at Lane’s house…”  
  
“I am yours to command.”  
  
“I don’t want-“  
  
“I can stand guard, if you like,” Charon offers. It is what he is for, after all. Protection. Guard duty. _My own loyal guard dog, eh, Charon?_ Ahzrukhal used to taunt. _Good puppy_. “Is there somewhere you would like me to stand?”  
  
“I don’t need a guard, Charon,” Gob tells him firmly. “You don’t have to stand anywhere. I’m not Ahzrukhal.”  
  
“No,” Charon agrees. He is not particularly fond of the idea himself, but new employers are always perilous footing, even those he knows. From experience, it is best to proceed with caution. “Then I would help you with your work.” He tries not to frame it like a question. Gob looks startled regardless.  
  
“Uh, well. You could bring a couple barrels round the front. If you wanted? While I get dressed?”  
  
Another nod seems like it will suffice. Gob seems pleased, anyway, and scampers upstairs while Charon heads to the back room to cart the barrels through to the bar. He has a little experience setting up the pumps from his days in Ahzrukhal’s employ, and although the Saloon’s systems are a little more rudimentary, he manages. He returns a few dirty glasses from the tables to the sink and douses them perfunctorily in water, then finishes tossing beer mats out onto the tables. Everything’s ready to go by the time Gob returns, clad in what Charon presumes is one of Moriarty’s old button-ups and jeans.   
  
“Everything is ready,” Charon announces. Gob stares.  
  
“What?” He glances around the room and its state of relative tidiness, then back at Charon. “You didn’t have to do all this.”  
  
“It is nothing. Are you ready to open up?”  
  
“Yeah. I’ll get the doors. You, uh, staying, then?”  
  
“I would help you with your work,” Charon repeats. He imagines the customer’s faces at the bar being tended by two ghouls, and it makes him smile.   
  
“Alright, then,” Gob says, not one to argue. Charon’s smile grows.

* * *

 

The day passes surprisingly quickly, with GNR playing in the background. Gob and Charon work well together - sidestepping each other’s bodies effortlessly while they turn to pour drinks and prepare bar food. Charon has removed his armour and stripped down to a ragged t-shirt and cargo trousers, the bulbous swelling of open muscle in his arms on proud display. Charon knows he is disgusting. His flesh is a canvas of sores, oozing fleshy scabs and old scars. He is not pleasant to look at, but it’s hot in the Saloon and he’s using his arms all day to shift liquor and pour pints. That it makes the customers flinch is just a happy coincidence.   
  
During a quiet spell, with only Jericho occupying a corner table, Gob announces it’s time for a lunch break. It takes two of them to convince him to go nurse his beer outside, and one of Charon’s most practiced death-glares to actually remove him from the premises.   
  
“This place was a hell of a lot better when Colin was runnin’ it!” Jericho spits as Charon deposits him outside, trying not to think of Underworld’s stairs and Patchwork flying down them. “Sure as hell didn’t have no lunch breaks then!”  
  
Charon tries not to react to this, but he’s certain his scowl betrays him slightly, if Jericho’s resulting smirk is anything to go by. Charon flips the OPEN sign to CLOSED and slams the door behind him, barricading them both safely in the bar. Gob is safe now. Moriarty is gone.   
  
“I made brahmin steak,” Gob tells him as he strides back around the bar. “That okay with you?”  
  
Charon does not question Gob’s offer of food. They both know what it’s like to be tossed scraps, to go without for days. Charon’s belly hasn’t growled like it used to for a little over a year now, but it hardly makes up for two centuries of the opposite. They sit together at one of the tables in the corner, a beer each at their elbows, and it’s… nice.  
  
Except, it seems, Charon’s mouth has lost the ability to form coherent sentences. Lane grew used to his silences, called him _grumpy_ and _rude_ sometimes in jest, and talked to Dogmeat instead. But with Gob, and all those times sat hunched on the stairs, watching out for Ahzrukhal’s shadow behind them, Charon feels the need to say something. To prove he isn’t just a mindless puppet. He does not want Gob to feel as if he must bear the entire weight of their conversation, as he used to.  
  
Strange.  
  
“Is the steak okay?” Gob asks nervously, breaking Charon’s guilty reverie. Charon looks down at his plate and realises he hasn’t eaten a morsel. “It’s not too overcooked, is it? Or not cooked enough? I can get you a new one if you want. Colin always said I can’t cook for shit.”  
  
“It is perfect,” Charon says, cutting a piece with his knife to prove it. The meat’s just as he likes it, slightly bloody in the middle. “You do not need to worry.”  
  
Silence falls over them again for a moment, and Charon chews his steak and tries to think of something intelligent to say. He’ll give Ahzrukhal one thing - silence is a hell of a lot easier than _chatting_.  
  
“This is gonna take some getting used to, huh?” Gob wonders. “I’m not accustomed to any of this. Can’t remember the last time I actually sat down to a meal with someone.”  
  
“You do not eat with Nova?”  
  
“She’s, uh… strung out, most of the time. First it was the Med-X, then Jet. Psycho, sometimes, too. She goes crazy on that stuff. Tries to sock the customers in the face. Jericho tried it on with her and she nearly punched his teeth out.”  
  
Charon has only met the woman twice - once smoking outside the Saloon, when she’d accused him of trying to see down her shirt, then a second time with her arms around Gob while he served the Sheriff, lips where the shell of his ear would have been. Neither time had she seemed particularly stable.  
  
“Why not evict her?” Charon asks.   
  
“She’s had it tough. Woman deserves a bit of time to go crazy. Besides, she owns half the deed to this place. It’s as much hers as it is mine now.”  
  
“You feel she is your responsibility,” Charon guesses. Gob shrugs, taking a bite of food before he replies.  
  
“I suppose. I’ve taken enough beatings for her.” A small chuckle accompanies this, though Charon frowns. “Customers don’t like fucking a whore with a black eye or a busted lip. And I didn’t like seeing her hurting. So.”  
  
“You talkin’ about me, gentlemen?”   
  
The two men turn to see the woman herself coming down the stairs, lips parted halfway. She bats long eyelashes at Gob while she floats down the remaining steps, still in her nightdress.  
  
“My ears are burnin’,” she tells them. “Ain’t many whores around here, y’see.”  
  
“Sorry, Nova. Turn of phrase,” Gob says, and the usual tremor is gone from his voice. Gently, he adds, “You hungry? I cooked steak.”  
  
“ _Sta-arving_ , Gobbie. I do love your steak.” She slumps into the free seat between them and lets her head drop heavy into her hands. Sounding very far away, she says, “And you, big guy. What brings you to our humble establishment?”  
  
Charon isn’t sure what to do. He surreptitiously eases his pint glass away from her and eyes Gob across the table.  
  
“We’ve met before,” he eventually settles on. “Charon.”  
  
“Hmm, I’m sure I’d remember you. I’m Nova. Gobbie’s resident whore.”  
  
“Ex-whore,” Gob grumbles. “And you don’t belong to me, Nova.”  
  
“Sure, sugarplum. _Ex_ -whore. I make up the rooms. For people to sleep in. Fuck in. Whatever.”  
  
“It is good to meet you formally,” Charon tells her, without feeling.  
  
“If you’re feeling up to it, Nova, how ‘bout a walk? It’ll do you good to get outside. There’s some supplies we could use from Moira, too.”  
  
“Sure, Gobbie. I’ll be your errand girl. Just make sure you invite me next time you bring a date ‘round for dinner, yeah? Plenty enough of your boy here to go around, if you catch my drift.” Her eyes trail Charon up and down before she leaves, tossing a leather jacket over her nightdress and slipping out the door. Gob clears his throat awkwardly, moves to clear his plate even though it’s half-full.  
  
“Like I said, sorry about her. She’s not well.”  
  
“It is not your fault.”  
  
“Isn’t it?” Gob sighs. “If I’d been more of a man about it, I’d have done something, got us both out of Moriarty’s clutches. Wouldn’t have left her to be saved by some kid fresh out of a Vault.”  
  
“ _It is not your fault_ ,” Charon emphasises. “You were in a bad situation, both of you. You have both been through awful things, things you did not deserve. You cannot escape a man who is accustomed to such power. You survived. That is enough.”  
  
Gob’s fluttery smile says perhaps Charon knows the right thing to say after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sick with a cold right now so I know this chapter is lousy. Things will happen. Eventually :P


	3. Chapter 3

Nova was the first person to touch Gob with kindness in a little over a decade. Ten years with no human contact but beatings, ten years since Carol first packed him off with a kiss to his molten cheek and a pack full of homebaked goods from a reluctant Greta. What did it say about his situation that in nearly a hundred years of living, he was still more accustomed to getting punched in the face than he was to a quick hug?  
  
Moriarty brought her in the back way, drugged to hell and back. He’d been talking about a ‘business transaction’ for weeks, but Gob had assumed he meant liquor or chems, not a red-haired woman passed out from Med-X or Colin’s old chloroform stash. He put her down on his own cot in the back room, arranged like a doll, legs splayed and long hair falling over her face.   
  
The last girl he’d brought in, an angry little thing with silver hair, had strolled into the Saloon one day of her own accord, shook hands with Moriarty over the counter, and took up her place by the stairs, arms folded and lip curled into a sneer. She’d mostly ignored Gob, except to agree loudly with Jericho that he was a dirty corpse who shouldn’t be taking up valuable breathing space. Silver lasted a little over a year before she ran off with whatever stash Colin had under his mattress. Apparently he was trying something new with this one.  
  
“Mr. Moriarty?” Gob asked, poking his head around the door. He’d been intending to offer assistance while they had a lull in business, but upon seeing Nova he froze in his tracks, one hand clenching around the rag in his hand.  
  
“What is it, boy? I’m busy here.”  
  
“I’m sorry, Mr. Moriarty, I didn’t-“  
  
“Shut yer face, ghoul. You’ll scare off our new business associate. This here’s Nova. She’s gonna make me a tidy little profit on the side, aren’t you, gorgeous?” Moriarty glanced up to gauge Gob’s reaction, that terrible glimmer in his eyes. “The customers won’t serve themselves, boyo, will they? Get your disgusting arse back in there.”  
  
“Yes, Colin, er, Mr. Moriarty, sir,” Gob gabbled, and backtracked through the doorframe while the bastard stroked a lazy, wrinkled hand down Nova’s sleeping face.  
  
Gob worked until closing at three, and Moriarty didn’t once emerge from the back room. He only came out when Gob had finished cleaning up, with Nova slung half-naked across his back like a sack of potatoes. He lugged her uneasily to the stairs, dumping her at the bottom with a thump. The woman didn’t stir.  
  
“Carry her up, there’s a good zombie. You can both take the spare bedroom for the night. See she doesn’t die in her sleep.”  
  
Gob wasn’t a strong man - aside from changing barrels and carting Moriarty’s shopping from Moira’s to the Saloon, the only exercise he got was pouring drinks. No free time to go weightlifting on the side. But he braced Nova in his arms and got her to the very top of the stairs and through to the spare bedroom, settling her under the ratty blankets on the bed. Her head lolled corpse-like to the side and off the pillow completely, one arm flopping over the chasm between mattress and midair. What the hell had Colin given her? Must've been a fuckload of Med-X to get her like this.  
  
“Don’t rot on her now, boyo!” Moriarty called through the door, thumping his way to his own room. “Need this one nice and clean for her work in the mornin’!”  
  
Gob didn’t need to ask what work he meant. The customers - Jericho especially - had been clamouring for some _light entertainment_ for months now. Nova’s state of undress and faraway eyes spoke for themselves.  
  
She stirred slightly when he shucked off his belt and let it fall with a clunk to the floor, then let his boots follow, but didn't wake fully. It was only when Gob settled his creaking body on the similarly creaking floorboards that she coughed herself awake and sat up.

“Wha’s goin’ on?”   
  
Gob looked up to see Nova propped up on an elbow on the bed, squinting down at him in the darkness. Her face was deathly pale, red hair aflame and framing a slack jaw, half-lidded eyes.  
  
“Where am I? Who’re you?” The questions weren’t delivered with any sort of urgency - if anything, Nova sounded bored. “Where’s the Irish bastard?”  
  
“I’m Gob,” Gob said. “You’re in Megaton. Moriarty’s Saloon. He said you were working for him now.”  
  
“Oh,” Nova sighed. “Fuck.”  
  
Gob stayed silent.  
  
“You a client, then?” Eyebrows raised, Nova appeared to appraise him from her lofty perch on the mattress, though from the lack of revulsion on her face she probably couldn’t see well enough to determine the exact percentage of his ghoulishness. “Why’re you down there?”   
  
“Not a client. Colin told me I could sleep in here. It’s past closing.”  
  
“Shit. You work here too, then? You gettin’ paid for this shit?”  
  
“Mr. Moriarty was nice enough to rescue me from a group of slavers. I’m paying off my debt to him. Working the bar.”  
  
“Oh sweetie. Oh, you poor thing.”  
  
“It’s fine. It’s gonna be fine. Another ten years and who knows? Maybe I’ll be going back home to my mothers.”  
  
“Ten years?” Nova breathed. “You’ve been here ten _years_?”  
  
Gob still remembered his first day. Moriarty hadn’t given him a night of respite like he was giving Nova - he’d been set to work straight away, even though he knew fuck all about running a bar and the patrons threw beers at him and tried to stab his fingers with switchblades while he was passing their drinks over. He’d been stupid enough to tattle to Moriarty, who just cackled sweetly. _If it means they buy more drinks, boyo, we’re golden!_  
  
That day, Gob had learned that _scrubbing down a counter_  really meant sweeping the floors, clearing the tables, stacking glasses, and then getting kicked in the groin for his troubles. He’d at least been permitted a couple of hours of sleep on the floor in the back, woken with a swift kick to his ribs, to begin the routine all over again the next day. And the day after that. And the next ten years after that.  
  
“It sounds bad, I know. But it isn’t, not really. I have to pay room and board just like anybody else. Maybe I just need to work harder.”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” A moment's silence, only broken by the chirp of some insect outside. "Look, why don't you come on up here? Can't be comfortable down there on the floor."  
  
Gob didn't need to be asked twice. His body always felt as though it'd been run over by a Sentrybot, and the floor meant his bruises were hitting the hard boards underneath him in all the wrong places. He scrambled up to the bed and slipped in the empty side, watching Nova roll to make room.   
  
The movement brought them almost nose-to-nose. Gob was suddenly very aware of his ragged skin, the exposed gristle and the patchy hair and the way he always seemed to be oozing slightly. Nova, to her credit, didn't react much beyond a surprised blink.  
  
"You're a ghoul," she said. "That's why Moriarty bought you, then? Shufflers come cheap."  
  
"I guess."  
  
"Sorry. Know I'm not supposed to call you that."  
  
"It's okay. D'you want me to go back on the floor?"  
  
"No. You can stay here." She rested a gentle hand on his gently oozing arm and patted him there.  
  
“Wake up call’s at dawn,” Gob echoed into the darkness. He pretended not to hear when Nova cried herself to sleep.

* * *

 

"Sometimes I wonder if I'm just being cruel, hiding the chems," Gob admits as they wash up their lunch dishes. "If anyone deserves a vice, it's Nova."  
  
"I notice you do not resort to chemical stimulation," Charon retorts, then averts his gaze straight to the floor in that way Gob hates, like he's done something wrong.   
  
"No. But I wasn't drip-fed the shit to keep me nice and docile for months. I might’ve gotten here first, but Nova… thought she knew what she was getting into. He said he’d pay her well, so she could send caps back to her parents. She could barely afford a weekly pack of cigarettes. Hell, she could barely get out of bed to go buy the cigarettes.”  
  
"Colin Moriarty was an evil man," Charon agrees. He doesn't let his gaze stray from the plates in the sink, just scrubs rhythmically the way Gob still does when he's anxious.   
  
"I dunno. Maybe if it makes her feel better, I should just... ease up on her," Gob continues, watching Charon for a reaction. "Jet can't be so bad, can it? She's used it long enough."  
  
Nothing. Charon just keeps scrubbing at the clean plate, and Gob wonders if he's being cruel, or if the good intention outweighs the bad… everything else.  
  
"So I'll leave it out. Let her find it. Maybe it'll help. Withdrawal certainly isn't doing her any favours-"  
  
"Chems are not the answer," Charon finally snaps. "Jet burns away the stomach lining, causing crippling abdominal pain and preventing digestion. Med-X can cause fatal cardiac problems. I observed Ahzrukhal's chem deals over the decades - he always knew his clients would die. He ensured they bought in bulk. He knew their addictions would send them back to him, if they could make it, and no harm was done to his purse strings if they did not. No effort was ever made to prevent their deaths. Allowing Nova free access to chems will kill her eventually."  
  
Charon takes a huge breath and exhales it through the gaping holes of his nostrils, still refusing to let Gob see his face.  
  
"I apologise. It is not my place to instruct you on this matter. Although you have not placed restrictions on my speaking freely, as my employer you are permitted to do so if you wish."  
  
 _Definitely made things worse_ , Gob thinks miserably. "I'm sorry, Charon. I want you to speak your mind. I'd never leave chems out for Nova. Just... wanted to push your buttons, I guess. Make you see that it's okay to disagree with me. I know this isn't gonna be easy - we've both been through a lot. But we don't have to sit down and shut up anymore." Gob frowns. "I didn't... hurt you, did I?"  
  
How had he not remembered the head pains? Charon got them sometimes, back in Underworld, when they were sitting in their alcove and Gob was chattering on at him. All those decades ago now, but Gob remembers the way his face contorted in pain when he rose hastily to his feet. _Ahzrukhal commanded me to return swiftly_ , Charon told him once, on one of the rare occasions he'd been allowed to talk. _The pain is unbearable now. I am sorry_.  
  
There's a crushing silence where Charon finishes washing up and slams the plates down on the side. Gob tries and fails to suppress an instinctive flinch, watching warily as Charon dries his hands with a rag and turns on his heel like he's about to walk out. He stops at the last second and turns back to face Gob, so quick he must definitely see the flinch this time.  
  
"I do not appreciate your methods. But no, I have not disobeyed a direct order, so you have not 'hurt' me."  
  
"Good," Gob murmurs.   
  
"You know you are my employer. I cannot harm you," Charon says, sounding uncertain. "Even if you were not, I would still not wish to."  
  
"I know."  
  
“Good."  
  
“I really am sorry, though, Charon,” Gob adds. He wants to reach out and put a hand on the other man’s shoulder - Gob’s always been a tactile person, even if the last fifteen years have been awful to him. Somehow, though, he thinks Charon might snap his wrist without thinking, contract be damned. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”  
  
“It is nothing,” Charon replies, although it is something, and they both know it. What’s the use of trying to break two-hundred plus years of brainwashing? What does Lane think he’s playing at, scampering off to the Commonwealth and leaving them both here? Leaving _Gob_ in charge? Gob has forgotten how to be in charge of anything, much less a person.  
  
The knock at the door startles them both. Gob is the first to react, moving from the back room to the bar.   
  
"Guess it's time to open up again. Pretty short lunch, huh?" he babbles as he goes to unlatch the door. Probably Jericho, demanding another beer, or maybe Billy Creel and Maggie, popping in on her school lunch break for a Nuka Cola and some snack-cakes. Anything's a respite from Charon's intense stare, and Gob's grateful for the interruption as he slides the bolt out and yanks open the old door on its warped hinges.  
  
"Gob." It's Simms. Not a wholly unusual occurrence, sure. The Sheriff pops in every now and again, orders a whiskey neat and sits alone in a corner. Strange for him to be knocking, though - guy never seems particularly desperate to get his hands on a drink. Still...  
  
"Yeah, Sheriff, sir?" Gob stammers anyway. He needs to kick the fucking habit already - Moriarty's been dead almost eight months now, Gob shouldn't still be tiptoeing round calling everyone _s_ _ir_ , but his tongue reacts before his brain has chance to.  
  
"There's been an accident, kid. I'm really sorry, but I think you'd better come down to the clinic. Nova's in a bad way."  
  
"What?" Gob asks, waiting for the punchline. "She only just left five minutes ago. I asked her to go to Moira's. What happened?"  
  
"Looks like she fell. She was on her way out of Craterside, someone said she toppled over the railing. She was pretty high up."  
  
 _Pretty high, more like_ , Gob thinks, and hates himself for it. He imagines Nova overbalancing with his supplies, lightheadedness making way for easy mistakes. The world dividing itself into threes in front of her eyes. Falling, falling, slamming into the ground, the shattering of bones. Nova can't tip herself into an irradiated puddle and heal herself up.  
  
"Shit," Gob mutters, feeling Charon looming somewhere behind him. "Is she gonna be okay? I'll, um, I'll be right down, Sheriff. Charon, stay here, okay? I won't be long."  
  
Gob flees outside and down the ramp before either can react, thinking of Nova spread-eagle on Church's gurney like she was spread out on Colin's couch all those years ago. When he skids to a halt outside the clinic the door's already open, a couple of townsfolk crowding the door, either with pains of their own or to see Nova's broken body, Gob isn't sure. He elbows his way to the front anyway, ignoring the grumbles of _watch out, rotter_  and the furious jabs of pain to his ribs. He needs to see Nova. He needs to know she's okay.  
  
"Nova," Gob breathes when he sees her. She's awake, sort of, flat on her back on an operating table with one broken leg, exposed bone peeking out of scarlet, flapping skin, her right shoulder dislocated out of its socket. Gob is acutely familiar with just how painful each of those injuries must be - Colin had been furious that time he dropped an entire crate of spirits and broke every bottle inside, after all, but he's a ghoul, and ghouls heal quick.  
  
Nova looks sick, her eyes fluttering somewhere between open and shut, head thrown back from the pain. She's lucky there isn't a spinal injury, lucky she hasn't broken her neck, but the leg looks bad, and there's God knows how much internal damage Gob can't see.  
  
"Four broken ribs, a fractured tibia, shattered kneecap, dislocated shoulder, a snapped wrist, and a concussion," Church says without turning his head from the patient. "Nova's lost a substantial amount of blood from the leg wound. There could be internal bleeds. She’ll live, but it'll cost you. Six hundred caps for the stimpaks and blood transfusions, an extra hundred if you want to throw in an anaesthetic while I fix this leg."  
  
"Anything," Gob says, forging himself a seat beside her. He rests his right hand on the bed beside hers, not quite daring to touch her but close enough in case she urgently needs to grab onto something. "I'll give you whatever money you want, just fix her."  
  
Nova smiles blearily up at him. "You don't have to, Gobbie. M'probably too broken to fix."  
  
"Bullshit," Gob says, forcing a watery smile, the kind they used to share when Moriarty wasn't looking. "You're gonna be fine. You'll see."  
  
"I'm sorry about the chems," Nova mumbles while Church readies the anaesthetic. "I've been an asshole. You're so good to me, Gobbie. You put up with so much. I'll make it up to you, promise. Anything you want."  
  
"I want you to get better," Gob tells her. He sees Nova blanch a little at the huge needle making its way towards her, and shifts to block the sight of it. When Nova reaches to grasp his hand with her good wrist, Gob can't help the tiny gasp his throat makes at the contact. "Was it the chems? That made you fall? I knew I shouldn't have sent you out alone..." he says, more as a distraction than anything else. Guilt prods at his temples, a stress headache building there. Something shifts on the gurney as Church injects the drug and Nova squeezes Gob's hand harder before her body goes lax.  
  
"I didn't fall, Gobbie," she slurs. "I was pushed."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out waaaay darker than I expected. Also, sorry for the lack of regular updates. I do not have my life in order.

Once, a few employers ago, when Charon was actually allowed to fulfil his role of bodyguard/mercenary/assassin instead of sulking in corners all day, he'd been told to _wait_. His employer, a man unimportant enough that Charon remembers neither face nor name, had acquired a treasure map from a trader for three thousand caps, and been intent on scuttling after said treasure down a sewer. A foolish errand, but he'd requested absolute silence at all times from Charon, confided that he'd _always wanted a tall dark shadow tailing him_ , so he didn't get the opportunity to comment. Perhaps he thought Charon would take the map from him and run off into the distance with caps or gold or whatever the fuck was in the treasure chest. Like Charon had the capacity.  
  
Anyway, he'd barked the order and taken off down the sewage drain, leaving Charon outside in blistering August heat with no water or food supplies, just his shotgun slung across his front and armour that made him clammy in all the wrong places. The armour he'd eventually stripped off, but the water he could do nothing about, since he couldn't move from the spot he'd been left in. Humans can last three days without water, ghouls maybe six. Charon thought maybe he could go eight. He'd gone eight and a half when the bastard had finally returned, dressed in stolen pre-war garb and babbling about how the scavenger who'd sold him the map was a fraud, how he'd almost been killed by super mutants, how Charon was a useless fucking piece of garbage who couldn't protect a radroach. After that, Charon learned that he could actually last eleven days without dying from dehydration, tailing his employer through the Wastes until they reached the Potomac, where Charon had lapped up the radwater like a dog without waiting for permission.  
  
Realistically, this time isn't so bad. Gob is only a few hundred feet away, and Simms leaves pretty quickly when he realises Charon's not backing away from the door any time soon. He's even within grabbing distance of a bottle of Nuka-Cola, although he hates the stuff. He won't starve to death.  
  
So why does his chest feel so tight?  
  
If he turns on the spot, Charon can see the old wall clock. It's only been an hour. Gob was worried about Nova, he was just making sure she's alright. He'll return for Charon at some point.  
  
The clock ticks. Charon waits.

* * *

 

When Gob finally returns, it's dark out, and Charon has turned away several hordes of furious customers demanding to know where _the other rotter_  had fucked off to. The door opens with a crash and Charon prepares his standard _we're closed_  speech, but it's only Gob, with a passed out Nova braced in his arms.  
  
"Hey, Charon," he greets, exhaustion colouring his voice. "Everything okay back here? Customers treat you okay?"  
  
"They were... disappointed the Saloon was closed," Charon settles for. Gob looks up at him in the middle of arranging Nova carefully across a rotten couch, confused.  
  
"You didn't let them in?" he asks. "It's fine, though. It's a lot, running a bar alone." Relieved of Nova's dead weight, he grunts and stretches, and Charon hears his lower back crack painfully.  
  
"You told me to wait," Charon explains. "I waited."  
  
Realisation dawns slowly on Gob's face, eyes lighting with horror, then what Charon is tempted to call shame. “Shit, Charon. I’m sorry. Fuck. I didn’t realise, I didn’t think… I’m sorry.”  
  
“I am yours to command,” Charon reminds him.  
  
“No!” Gob cries. “No, you’re not. You’re my friend. There must be some wiggle room, right? Couldn’t I just… order you to not take imperatives literally?"  
  
“I do not know,” Charon admits. “The contract compels me to _wait_  if you tell me to.”  
  
“Well, how about this? I’ll do my best not to frame things as orders, and, uh, if I tell you to wait in future, I don’t mean _don’t move_. Okay?”  
  
Charon considers it. “Perhaps.”  
  
"Lane managed it okay, right? He wasn't... like Ahzrukhal?"  
  
"He restricted the use of orders to the field, mostly, where they are useful in combat," Charon says. Then, "You are not like Ahzrukhal."  
  
Gob bites his lip doubtfully at this, mutters, “I’m really sorry," again. The apology is not necessary, of course. He’d given an order, just as the contract permits him to do. He is Charon’s employer. Charon is honour bound to follow his orders. Besides, Charon has been ordered to do worse than stand around for a few hours. Much worse. Gob knows that better than a lot of people.  
  
“It is nothing,” Charon replies. “How is Nova?”  
  
“Oh. She’s, uh, alive. Church said she needs to be on bed rest for at least two weeks. But she’s also still concussed, so I’ve gotta wake her every half hour tonight.” Gob sighs, drags a hand through what remains of his hair. “She, uh, she was confused when I got there. Said someone pushed her over the railing by Craterside Supplies.”  
  
Charon frowns, moving to stand closer to Gob by the couch. Nova’s bruises are remarkably purple, blossoming over her face and down her neck, and over the parts of her body unobscured by her clothing. One eye has swollen shut, one arm still in a sling. Charon imagines it must have taken most of the clinic’s stimpak supply just to heal her up this much, judging by the height of her fall.  
  
“Who'd push her?” Charon asks. Gob shrugs, fumbling with a hole in his shirt.  
  
“I dunno. I can’t imagine Moira doing something like that. She’s too nice. Used to call me pumpkin and sneak me snack cakes,” he says. “Jericho, maybe. I dunno if he was anywhere close to Craterside, though. Guess we won’t know for sure until she wakes up, and if there’s no proof maybe not even then.”  
  
“He seemed bitter about being thrown out of here earlier.”  
  
“Yeah. Plus he’s pissed Nova won’t fuck him anymore, not even for caps.”  
  
Gob seems to find the act of caring for Nova comforting, at least, and busies himself with fluffing pillows and fetching blankets. She’ll let him fuss while she’s asleep, Charon realises, and Gob enjoys it when her bitter facade is down, and he can let the fluttery affection he usually keeps under wraps leak out.  
  
“Not much point opening up again now. I’ll get Nova upstairs in bed, and lock up. People want booze, they can get it at the Lantern.”  
  
“I’m sorry I lost you custom,” Charon says, and half means it. Gob just shrugs it off like he does everything else, like lost caps don’t matter to him.  
  
“Not your fault,” he replies. He’s already scooping Nova up into his arms again, trailing blankets behind them as he trudges up the stairs. “Could you grab the pillows?” he calls over his shoulder to Charon. He could refuse. It’s not an order. He wonders what Gob would do if Charon said _no_  - probably shrug again, tell him it’s no big deal and get the pillows himself. He doesn’t refuse, of course - he grabs them off the couch and tucks them under his arm, fetches a bottle of purified water from the bar and takes that up too.  
  
“Here,” Charon announces, allowing Gob to arrange them while Nova stirs a little, grumbles, reaches for him. Charon leaves the water on the cabinet beside the bed, clears his throat.  
  
“Is there anything else you require?”  
  
“No, I don't think so. I'm just gonna stay with Nova for a while, okay? Feel free to, uh, do whatever," Gob says. Charon had gotten slightly more used to small freedoms in Lane's employ, but it had been a gradual process, months of watching warily around corners every time he lit up a cigarette or took a nap or opened one of Lane's magazines. He still isn't quite sure what to do with _do whatever_ , except trudge back downstairs and wait for Gob to provide him with further instruction.

* * *

 

"You need anything else, Nova?" Gob asks once she's settled, slipping in and out of a light doze. Gob twines his hands together in his lap to keep from stroking the short strands of hair back from her forehead. "Some food? Another blanket?"  
  
"You ain't gotta worry about me, Gobbie," she murmurs. "You didn't have to send Mr. Tall Dark and Rugged away on my behalf."  
  
"He's not..." Gob starts, then realises he can't exactly deny it. "I didn't do it for you," he finishes feebly. It isn't like Charon has to stay glued to Gob's side now, contract or not. Gob had expected him to retreat to Lane's house as soon as he had verbal permission, but instead he's stayed by Gob's side all day and helped him run the Saloon and been forced to stand in the same spot for five hours. Gob feels sick at the last part.  
  
"Do you remember who pushed you?" Gob blurts instead. He doesn't want to talk about Charon with Nova, not when she's been privy to his bouts of frustrated lust a hundred times. Whatever Gob might feel for the other man has to be quashed because of the contract. Gob's no fucking slaver.  
  
"A man," Nova says after a breath. She tries to reach for the water Charon left on the cabinet for her, but her arm falls a little short and sends the bottle flying. "Shit, sorry Gobbie. I'm useless. I don't remember much, except that it was definitely a man. He looked like a shadow, maybe he was wearing dark clothes.”  
  
“At least it wasn’t Moira,” Gob mutters, only half joking. “Are you sure you were pushed? It wasn’t a hallucination? You’re certain?”  
  
“ _Yes_ , Gob. I’m fairly sure I didn’t climb over the railing and throw myself into the void. I know you must think I’m a crazy junkie bitch, but I’m no lightweight. I can handle my chems.”  
  
“You said you’d stop,” Gob mutters, fingers clenching in the ratty blanket thrown over Nova. “In the clinic. You promised.”  
  
“You don’t get it, Gobbie. I know you want to understand, really. But everything’s so far away right now. It’s nice. Like being on a cloud, like I’m watching myself down below wandering through life in a haze, but nothing can hurt me ‘cause I’m not really down there, I’m up on the cloud. Y’see? Colin’s not on the cloud. Jericho’s not on the cloud. But I do miss you, Gob. I wish you were on the cloud with me.”  
  
Gob just sighs, scrubs a tired hand across his molten face. He’s so tired of all of this. He figured it had to get better, with Moriarty rotting in a dumpster somewhere and the deed to the Saloon in Gob’s own possession, but it’s harder. He’s so used to having someone tell him what to do that the lack of it is disorienting, like he’s missed a step on the stairs. He doesn’t know how to take care of Nova. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s supposed to do about Charon. Hell, he’s not even entirely sure how to calculate gross versus net profit, and he’s pretty sure that’s one of the fundamentals of running a business.  
  
“I’m sorry, Gob,” Nova says, squirming out from under the blankets. “I’ll try. For you. I will. But just let me…”  
  
“You’ll catch cold,” he scolds, but helps her free her arms and then legs. “Where are you going?”  
  
“Oh, Gob. You’re so sweet. You’re such a sweet guy, Gob. I’m so sorry. I’ve been awful to you. You put up with so much.” Nova extends a shaky hand to stroke his face, doesn’t even flinch at the contact. The stimpaks have mostly fixed her wrist, although it’s set at a slightly strange angle, but if she moves around any more she risks dislodging the stitches, and Gob still can’t bear to see her hurting.  
  
“Don’t move so much,” he tells her, trying to smooth back the covers so she might lie down again.  
  
“Sorry, Gobbie. You wanna do all the work, yeah? I’ll let you be on top.” She pushes her hair back from her face, reaching her spare arm around Gob’s shoulders to tug him down on the bed, and he moves involuntarily.  
  
“What? Nova, what’s-”  
  
“C’mon, Gob. I know you want to. You’ve wanted to for years. I always saw you, y’know, staring. You weren’t subtle. Respectful, yeah, never below the neckline, but never subtle.” She chokes a laugh, hand skimming across Gob’s t-shirt and then lower. “And I said I’d pay you back, didn’t I?” She kisses him then, right on his rotting lips, her eyes fluttering shut. Gob flies backwards, hearing her hiss of pain as his body brushes her bruises, but he’s in too much shock to do much about it except scramble backwards and off the mattress.  
  
“Nova, you’re not well. The painkillers, and- you’re- you’re injured. You’re not thinking straight.”  
  
“Maybe you're the one who isn't thinking  _straight_. Is this about Charon? 'Cause Gobbie, honestly, I really don't mind. I can be quiet. You can even use the back entrance, so to speak. If you want." She's high. She isn't herself, Gob knows. But still, the words are meant to sting and they do, they make Gob want to tear what's left of the skin on his forearms off in ragged strips until he's just a pulsing mass of pain. That she thinks this is what he wants burns Gob up inside. Even Nova thinks he's a monster. 

"You wanted me too, once. Remember, back in the early days? I'm here now, Gob. Let me make you feel good." 

Gob only backs up further, until he's pressed bodily against the wall. It’s true he wanted her, but not like this, never like this. Gob used to fantasise about that first night, the one and only time they’d been allowed to share a bedroom, imagined spooning up against Nova’s back, sneaking an arm across her waist, pulling her close. Burying what’s left of his nose in her hair. But it had never gone beyond that, never evolved into fucking against the rough mattress or his mouth over hers. He’d never let it. And now there’s Charon, who Gob would very much like to do those things with, who's contractually obligated to be there, and Nova’s not herself-  
  
“I get it. You don’t want me. Damaged goods and all that,” she whispers now, voice breaking on the last sentence. “Still, I could suck you off, if you wanted. You could pretend I’m Charon. Just to pay you back for the medicine.”  
  
“Who do you think I am?” The words emerge from a throat that doesn’t feel like Gob’s own, hoarse and thin. “Huh, Nova? Have I turned into Moriarty, is that it? Do you feel as if I’m keeping you here against your will? Because I don’t want to do that, Nova, I don’t. You don’t have to stay. I’ll buy you out, you can take your caps and go. Do you want to? I don’t want to be Moriarty, Nova.” Tears are swimming in front of Gob’s vision now, blurring the room and Nova until all he can see clearly is the orange flame of her hair.  
  
“No, Gobbie. I don’t want to go. You’re not like him, you’re not anything like him. I’m sorry, Gob, just…”

"You aren't damaged, Nova. Just so you know, that isn't what this is about. You know I love you."

"You just love someone else more."

"It's not about that. Nothing could ever happen between Charon and me, you know that. It wouldn't ever be fair to him. But you're hurt. You're only doing this because you think you owe me something, but that's not true either. You're my best friend, and I wanted to help."

"Because you love me," she echoes, and it's a question.

"Yeah. 'Cause I love you."

"I'm still sorry, Gob."

“I know. I’m going downstairs. Just… holler if you need anything, okay? I just… need to be alone.”  
  
He stumbles outside, needing air, gasping for it, and runs right into Charon in the hall, clutching a plate of food in a loose grip and looking a strange blend of sheepish and shocked.

"Uh... how much did you hear?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this got dark! Warnings for depictions of injury and gratuitous use of italics.

“I brought food,” Charon says, lifting the plate to show Gob. “Just squirrel stew. I found the meat in the freezer. I thought you might be hungry.” A pause. “You bid me to _do whatever_. I hope that was not crossing a line.”

This must be as close as Charon ever gets to babbling, Gob guesses. “Charon. How much did you hear?” he repeats, feeling his stomach clench.

“Enough.”

 _Shit_. “I’m- I’m sorry, I didn’t, ah, I didn’t mean-“

“Perhaps we should talk downstairs.”

“Yeah. Good idea. Let’s… do that.”  
  
The trip down the few stairs and into Moriarty’s old back room seems to take an age. Charon dumps the plate of food on the table between them, and Gob wonders distantly if he’s already eaten his share, or if he simply didn’t make more. He lowers himself into a chair with a creak that could be the old wood or could be his old bones, watches Charon do the same opposite. He feels sick.  
  
“Charon, look, whatever you heard- I know I’m out of line. I was never gonna tell you.”  
  
“I am not offended, if that is what you’re worried about,” Charon says, scraping a thumbnail against the rivulets in the table. “The opposite.”  
  
“Flattered. Right,” Gob says. A gentle let-down if he’s ever heard one - but what the hell else did he expect? He meant what he told Nova - nothing can ever happen between the two of them. Even if Lane comes back, even if he snatches Charon’s contract right out of Gob’s hand, Charon will have to go follow him across the Wastes again. And that’s presuming he’s even _interested_  in Gob, who’s a falling apart wreck if he’s anything. What does he have to offer anyone, really? Joints that crack and fizzle when he moves, ragged, ghoulified skin, old scars littering his back. Hell, he still cowers at the sound of other people’s arguments and ducks his head to speak to people, calls them _sir_. He can’t even pretend to have romantic prospects now. The best he’ll get is an offer of no-strings-attached sex with a Nova who’s too high on painkillers to know what she’s fucking.  
  
“Gob…”  
  
“No, I get it. I didn’t mean for you to find out. I never kidded myself that this could work.”  
  
Charon makes a small sound of agreement. “No. Neither did I.”  
  
Gob’s startled for a second. “You mean… you thought about this? Sometimes? Maybe?”  
  
This time a look of shame crosses Charon’s face, and he doesn’t meet Gob’s eyes as he says, “Sometimes. Yes.”  
  
Ah. He means back in Underworld, before Gob became the glorified slave he is now, before Moriarty belted all the remaining fight out of him in this very back room. Back when Gob was the only person who ever bothered speaking to Charon outside of Ahzrukhal, something to latch onto in the endless days watching the bar. Nothing more than something to fantasise about when there wasn’t anything better to do.  
  
“Right. Well. Look, I never wanted to make you feel uncomfortable with this, Charon. I mean- with your contract and everything. I’d never take advantage, you know that, right?”  
  
“My contract forbids physical violence.”  
  
“Yeah. Of course. Yeah.” Gob doesn’t bother mentioning that there are other kinds, ways that people have probably twisted those words in the past, because Charon knows that better than anyone. “Sorry, again, anyway. I know what this must look like, a disgusting wreck desperate for affection. I know I’m way past that.”  
  
“Past… affection?” Charon asks, and the word sounds foreign coming out of his mouth.  
  
“Yeah. Who the fuck’d want me anyway, huh? I wouldn’t subject anyone to this.” Gob gestures down at his own body, wishing he could sink right into the floor. “Much less you. I mean, it’s a moot point anyway, but-”  
  
“Gob… you are… you’re…”  
  
“Ridiculous? Disgusting? I know. God, Charon, I know.”  
  
“You are neither of those things.” Charon’s leaning further over the table now, something burning dark behind his eyes. “You are… special. To me. You are strong and brave and your ass in those jeans is…”  
  
“What?” Gob echoes, not trusting his voice to hold steady. “Have you eaten something bad, Charon? Was it the brahmin?”  
  
“If I thought you’d believe me, I’d tell you that there is nothing wrong with your cooking. Or with you. It is the truth. All of it.”  
  
Gob snorts. “Yeah, and molerats can fly. I’m the weakest person I know, Charon. I’m a battered, broken wreck. I get flashbacks so bad it’s like he’s still here. The other day Nova came downstairs and found me on the floor covering my face like he was standing over me. I’m not strong, and I’m definitely not brave. And… I have no idea what my ass looks like in these jeans, but I’m sure it’s as charred as the rest of me.”  
  
“All of those things, and yet you are still here. Still kind. Still _good_. Still taking care of Nova although she treats you badly, continues taking chems. Still allowing me to _do whatever_  despite years of having someone use you as you could use me. If that is not strength, I am doubtful such a thing exists.”  
  
“Charon…”  
  
“I want you. I’ve wanted you since Lane first dragged me into Megaton and I saw you tending bar. I don’t want you to ever think that I did not… want you. But Gob, this could never work between us. I would… ruin you.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Gob, after all you have seen me do… Every gruesome execution you’ve seen me carry out. I never entertained the fantasy that you might want me back. And now that you do… I feel that it is my responsibility to stop you getting pulled any further into this than you perhaps already are.”  
  
It occurs to Gob, distantly, that this is the most he’s ever heard Charon speak, even if whatever he’s speaking sounds like one endless riddle. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. All those things they made you do - your _employers_  - none of that was your doing. Your hands doing it, maybe, but never you, Charon.”  
  
“There is no difference,” the other man sighs. Gob watches the slowly cooling stew that sits between them, can’t speak through the crushing disappointment settling over him. He’d never expected any different, so why does this hurt so much? Because Charon might have wanted him back, at some point? Gob still holds his contract. All of this still stinks of wrong.  
  
“I don’t believe that, and I don’t think you do either, deep down,” Gob assures him anyway. "Look, it doesn't change anything for me. I- I'd never act on any of it, of course, but I just want you to know that... I don't hold you accountable for any of that crap, Charon. Neither did Lane."  
  
"I... thank you. For believing that. I am afraid I am- at a loss," Charon mutters. It's still not okay, of course - there's a stubborn frown tugging at Charon's forehead, but he'll get there. Gob will make sure of it. "But if that is really the case... I do not think I would mind you _acting upon_  it. One day. Perhaps."  
  
Gob's the one lost for words now, mouth gaping open like his jaw's finally decided to give out after so many dislocations. He blinks lamely at Charon, who's busy scraping his chair back from the table.  
  
"If you would permit me, I would like to rest."  
  
"Uh, yeah, of course. There's, uh, spare rooms upstairs, or I still have Lane's keys-"  
  
"Most of my things are at Lane's home. If you don't mind."  
  
"Course not," Gob untangles the keyring from where he's attached it to his belt, fumbles them over to Charon. "They're yours anyway, technically. You might as well keep them."  
  
"Everything in my possession is yours, as my employer. But... thank you." He at least takes the keys, and their fingers touch briefly, just enough to make Gob's skin fizzle at the contact. "Goodnight, Gob."  
  
"Night, Charon."

* * *

 The next morning when Gob rolls out of bed and drags himself downstairs, still exhausted from being folded into a wooden chair all night, making sure Nova didn't die in her sleep, he finds Charon dragging a heavy duffel bag through the front door of the Saloon. He’s wearing fresh clothes - jeans that he must’ve dug up from somewhere in his travels with Lane, and a tight black t-shirt that makes him look even more huge than usual.  
  
"Er, hey, Charon. Not a dead body, I hope?" he asks, trying to sound cheerful. Charon just shoots him a look that he quickly smooths over into an expression of indifference - _submission_ , Gob's mind helpfully supplies - and swings the thing over a broad shoulder.  
  
"My things. Fresh clothes, a few books, guns. From Lane's house." He pauses to scratch at the back of his neck where Gob imagines sweat must be prickling, and says, "I hope that is... allowed."  
  
"Charon, you can do whatever you want to. I'm not about to start telling you what you can and can't do. Of course you can bring your stuff over here. Does this, ah, mean you're moving in, then?"  
  
"If-" he starts to say, then cuts himself off. "Yes."  
  
Gob can feel the grin stretching across his own face without express permission from his brain, inclines his head so he's looking at the floor. Old habits die hard, he guesses. "Good. That's... good."  
  
"The room opposite Nova's is the most comfortable," he tells him as Charon heads for the stairs. "If you go next door you'll probably hear her screaming. Nightmares. Withdrawal. Y'know. And the bed in the other room is a bit scratchy."  
  
"You do not wish to keep the best room for guests?”  
  
Gob almost lets slip a laugh at _best room_ , as if this little shack made from old airplane parts could ever offer luxury accommodation for the weary traveller, but keeps it in, just barely. “You go ahead and take whichever room you like. I’m just gonna finish setting up here and I’ll open up. Reduced hours today, with Nova being… sick.”  
  
“I am here to help,” Charon offers with a nod, and heads up the stairs with the bag slung across his wide back, taut shirt tugged over the muscular planes of his body, making every uneven - _fucking beautiful_  - patch of skin stand out. Gob watches him go with only a slight pang in his chest.

* * *

Gob feels safer, somehow, now that Charon’s things are stowed away upstairs. Might be the big-ass guns he knows the other man usually hauls around with him, sure, but Gob has an inkling that it’s more the reassurance that Charon isn’t just going to up and leave him. It’s been almost two weeks now, and they’ve grown almost properly comfortable around each other; Gob knows Charon better than he’s ever known anyone except his mothers, maybe, or Nova. Distantly he wonders how far the contract might let Charon get with _do whatever_  - the only standing orders he'd left - as he scrubs down the counter for no real reason. The thing’s probably as good as it’s gonna get, but it's something to occupy his hands while they get through a quiet spell. It’s just after midday, and Gob’s still sweating a little from the lunch rush; he and Charon both inhaled a box of Fancy Lads each in between serving customers, and now Charon’s upstairs offloading a tray of stew onto Nova, who’s on the road to recovery, at least. The bruises have faded to a gentle green, and her wrist is almost to its normal range of movement, plus she can finally breathe without too much pain. Gob’s busy thinking up a half-formed plan to make it up to them both with dinner - he’s thinking radstag, maybe, and candles, and maybe some of Colin’s old wine stash - when Jericho comes stumbling through the front door with a knife in his hand.

“Rotter! Where are ya, you lazy-ass piece of shit zombie?” the man slurs, catching himself in the doorframe, almost losing his footing on the uneven floorboards. His gaze skims unsteadily up to meet Gob’s, and he can’t help but freeze - Jericho already drunk is never a good sign, and nine times out of ten ends in some kind of agony for Gob. But something’s different. Gob’s seen the man trashed a thousand times, knows he’s pretty good at holding his liquor, knows there’s hardly any other place to get trashed out of your mind around here since Jenny Stahl refuses to serve after a slurred word too many.  
  
“Y-yeah?” Gob asks, refusing to add the _sir_  that wants to spill out. “I’m afraid we can’t serve you, Jericho, not when you’re… like this.”  
  
“As if I want your filthy mitts on anything I’m putting near my mouth! You’d fuckin’- ooze in it, or somethin’. All these years I been drinkin’ your poison piss-water and there was somethin’ way better out there all along!”  
  
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean-“  
  
“Don’t care,” Jericho spits, and lunges forward with the blade still brandished at Gob. “Just gotta get the job done and there’s more where this came from, eh, zombie? Mmm-hmm, I cannot _wait_  to get my hands on some more o’ this premium shit.”  
  
“W-what job?” Gob stammers. “I really think you should leave-“  
  
“You tellin’ me to leave, boy? You wouldn’t turn away your best customer now, would ya? ‘Specially not one who’s gonna have such a fat wallet after today, huh? You really tellin’ me you wouldn’t miss me, Gob?” He’s at the counter now, stretching over it so his face is inches from Gob’s own, and he can feel the faint mist of spittle on what’s left of his skin. Gob’s fingers squeeze the edge of the counter so hard he hears his knuckles pop. “You wouldn’t miss me even after all the fun we’ve had together?”  
  
And now Gob feels sick, remembers the feel of a blade jammed through the meaty part of his hand, between the index finger and thumb; remembers how quickly he’d learned to wipe a globule of spit from his eyes; remembers a pint glass smashed over his left shoulder and then remembers Moriarty squeezing the wound so forcefully shattered fragments of glass broke loose and scattered across the floor, remembers being told to _fucking clean it up, rotter!  
_  
He’s about to move backwards when the glint of Jericho’s blade gets just a little too high for his liking, and quick as a flash, the man’s sunk the blade into Gob’s right forearm. It’s more muscle memory than pain that makes him stumble away, his mind wrestling between stemming the blood flow, wrenching the knife clean out, and cleaning up the blood that’s already spattered across the bar. Any second now there’ll be an Irish voice jeering from the back room that he’s in for it now, and that blood better not fucking stain else he’ll flay Gob alive out on the catwalk for everyone to see. _Good one, Jericho, me boy! Really got him good there! Couldn’t have done a better job meself!  
_  
Gob’s fingers reach uselessly around the hilt of the knife to tug it free, watches his flesh cling to the blade as he pulls. Ridiculously, he’s never been much good with blood - and how insane is that, really - and he feels his stomach flip as the knife clatters to the ground.  
  
Distantly he hears Jericho laughing as he turns for the door, muttering something about a windfall coming his way, but then his own pulse roaring in his ears drowns it out, and there’re footsteps or a heartbeat and an angry voice yelling his name, and then Gob’s slumped against the bar panting for his life and Charon has his shotgun cocked and he’s running out the door after the man-  
  
Gob doesn’t have it in him to shout _stop_. Doesn’t even have it in him to move from his spot on the floor, back digging uncomfortably into the wooden shelving behind him. There’s a shot from outside, and a yelp, and then Charon appears back in the doorway with the gun slung across his front.  
  
“Gob,” he breathes, crouching, taking ahold of the arm still lazily chugging out blood. Charon’s face is so pale Gob thinks for a second he must be looking in a mirror.  
  
“I’m fine,” Gob whispers. “Just need some rad water and I’m good as new. And maybe a damp cloth. You’re gonna get blood on your shirt.” Everything feels very far away. Should his arm be bleeding this much? “Did you kill him?”  
  
“No. But he will not be able to walk for a very long time.”  
  
“Oh,” Gob huffs out a laugh. “Well, at least he won’t be rushing back. Not exactly quality customer service, huh?”  
  
“I was too late. I have allowed you to be injured. I have failed to fulfil my obligations as set out by my contract. You- _fuck_ , Gob, you’re hurt. I failed to protect you. Physical punishment is acceptable. Encouraged.” Charon gulps, and Gob feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. “I fear necessary. I have grown lax. This is- unacceptable.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry about the New Vegas reference, and also for the relative shittiness of this chapter, but it's heeeeeere!

Charon never let his guard down enough to ever allow Ahzrukhal to be injured on his watch. Being a bouncer at a bar full of ghouls was never exactly rife with danger anyway, and Ahzrukhal's little trips only ever resulted in a splitting headache at worst for Charon. He'd never let the man physically close enough to deliver real punishment.  
  
But there'd been others. There were always others. The last time he can remember being stupid enough for an employer to take physical damage was decades ago - a woman, if his fuzzy memory serves him right. A junkie, strung out on chems ninety-nine percent of the time and drunk the other one. They'd taken on too many hostiles at once, and Charon hadn't been allowed sleep in almost three weeks, and she'd taken a bullet to the shoulder, howled like a bitch all the way to safety. And then Charon had dug the bullet out with his cleanest knife, cleaned and bandaged the wound, applied a stimpak, let her grip his hand while he disinfected the site. She repaid him with two bullets of her own, one for each of his thighs, left him bleeding till morning when she'd finally tossed him some rad water and tweezers.  
  
And now Gob lies bleeding in front of him and Charon cannot breathe.  
  
The truth is, he hadn't seen it coming. Even with how the locals are used to treating ghouls, he assumed they were relatively safe in Gob's little bar with Moriarty dead. And he's so used to protecting Lane, who hardly even needs protection anymore, that he'd forgotten Gob has hardly any combat experience, that fighting back is foreign to him.  
  
First things first, though. He has to stem the bleeding, wads up a nearby dishcloth and presses it tight against the wound. Gob grunts a little at the pressure but doesn't complain.  
  
"This isn't your fault, Charon," is all he says while Charon fetches rad water and the first aid kit from behind the bar. Charon isn't listening, just lets water leak over the wound, watches it begin to seal itself before he injects the stim. "See?" Gob continues. "Good as new. I just gotta... I just gotta clean this place up."  
  
"You need to rest," Charon points out, extending an arm so Gob can lever himself to his feet. "I will clean up. Everything else can wait. Unless- unless you'd prefer to deliver my punishment now."  
  
"You must know I'd never do that," Gob grits out, face still contorted in pain. "You must by now. You and Nova really do think I'm some kind of monster, don't you?"  
  
"You are not a monster. But you were injured on my watch. You could have been _killed_ , Gob. It was my duty to prevent both, and I did not, and that is unacceptable. As my employer you would be well within your rights to want to hurt me back."  
  
"I've been hurt plenty of times, Charon. I'm used to it by now. It's just kinda nice this time to have someone to help me up off the floor afterwards." Gob’s already stumbling away from Charon’s grip and Charon can’t even blame him, but he just starts fussing with a cleaning rag, going to wipe up the blood before it can stain. Something in Charon aches.  
  
“I will always be here,” Charon vows. “But you must rest. I will take care of the bar. Just rest.”  
  
“Are you sure? I don’t wanna leave you down here alone. I’ve dealt with worse before-“  
  
“I know. But now you do not have to. Go. Rest.” He’s hardly in a position to be giving orders, but Gob looks pale and frightened, and Charon fears that if he says nothing the other man will lower himself to his knees and start scrubbing. Gob looks grateful for the instruction, anyway, and turns towards the back room.  
  
“Jericho… he said something about caps. And chems, maybe, maybe liquor. Hard stuff. Like he was getting paid or something.”  
  
“Paid to stab you?” Charon asks, his heart lurching again. First Nova, now this. He thought things would be simpler after Lane left. He was naive.  
  
“I dunno. Maybe. Said somethin’ about a windfall.”  
  
“I will be on my guard from now on. I apologise that I was not more alert.” He looks down at his boots, unable to meet Gob’s eyes. Failure pulses at his temples, the adrenaline from before already beginning to fade.  
  
“Not your fault. I should’ve done something other than just stand there. I guess I’m just not used to being able to fight back.”  
  
The headache increases, a deep throbbing ache spreading across Charon’s frontal lobe - even if Gob refuses to punish him, the contract will not. He raises one hand to squeeze the bridge of his nose, willing it to fade, knowing it won’t. Through the haze in his vision he sees Gob frown, still paused behind the bar.  
  
“Are you okay? Charon, you look _sick_ , are you-“  
  
“Fine,” he grits out. The pain is so bad it’s almost nauseating.  
  
“It’s the contract, isn’t it? Your head. I told you, you didn’t do anything wrong. This wasn’t your fault. You don’t deserve this, Charon.” Even if the words are a lie, something warm unfurls itself in Charon’s stomach. Dimly, he recognises that the headache is already beginning to abate, which can’t be right. These things can go on for hours. _Longer_.  
  
“Gob…” he tries as his vision clears. Gob is looking at him with such concern reflected in his eyes that it floors Charon for a second. “I am okay now. T-thank you.”  
  
“We should close up. You shouldn’t stay here alone. We’ll get some sleep, and later I can cook something, and I’ll see if Nova wants to join us for dinner, but you should… you should rest too. After that. I don’t want to see you in pain, Charon.”  
  
It’s insane. None of his previous contract holders barring Lane have ever - _ever_  - not wanted to see Charon in pain. It delighted them, various incarnations of wasteland scum, to have control over something in a Godless world that they were so used to having control them. Lane was different - fresh out of a vault, still so young, still hopeful - so it was just about understandable. But Gob… Gob has been through so much. Too much. And although Charon had known, or at least suspected, that he would be different, it’s an entirely alien thing to be confronted with the reality of it. He is _property_. He is so used to being property, just an extra arm to hold a gun or a heavy pack or to slice someone’s throat with, that the thought of being offered what sounds suspiciously like a nap in the middle of the day by someone looking at him as Gob is looking at him now, is completely and utterly insane.  
  
“That is not necessary,” Charon offers, because it hadn’t been a direct order.  
  
“You don’t have to sleep,” Gob says, too quickly. “Just… I don’t want to leave you to tend bar alone after what’s happened.” As Charon is about to protest, the other man holds up a hand, a half-grin beginning to form. “I know, I know, you can handle yourself. I know. But if something happened to you all for the sake of a few caps… I don’t know if I could bear that, Charon.”  
  
“If it is what you wish, I shall rest too,” Charon says, because he has forgotten how else to say it. When Gob doesn’t move, Charon trudges towards the stairs, exhaustion suddenly weighing heavy across his shoulders. It has been such a long day.  
  
“G’night, Charon,” Gob says before Charon leaves, although it is not night and if the day has been anything to go by, it is not good either. But Charon returns his small smile, one hand on the banister. He’d do anything to take that hesitancy out of Gob’s face, the one that tightens the skin remaining around his eyes and sets his shoulders awkwardly. This is Gob’s home. He deserves to be comfortable in it.  
  
“Goodnight, Gob.” And with that Charon climbs the rickety old stairs and lets himself into the room he has claimed as his own, clicking the door softly shut behind him.

* * *

 

When Gob wakes up again in the cot Moriarty kept in his back room, it’s to the smell of cooking drifting in from the crack under the door, and the faint sound of GNR playing on a radio outside. He eases himself up in bed, propped on elbows that still ache with old pains, and winces at the new twinge in his forearm.  
  
Gob finds Charon already up, cooking noodles in a large stew pot. He’s shirtless, and the sight of him takes Gob’s breath away for a good few seconds. He’s suddenly very grateful Charon’s back is turned, so he can’t see the despicable longing painted across Gob’s own face.  
  
“You cooked,” Gob states once he’s got his breath back. “I was gonna do that.”  
  
“I hope I have not… overstepped. I thought I should let you rest, and I assumed you would be hungry once you woke. I made enough for Nova too.”  
  
“It’s fine! It’s great, really. Smells great.”  
  
Gob settles himself at the table and watches Charon stir the pot. There’s meat roasting in a separate pan which he checks periodically, and by the time he turns off the heat the entire room smells amazing. Whatever Charon’s about to plate up is probably gonna be a damn sight better than the slop Gob would have produced.  
  
“What are we having?” he asks, impatient. He’s used to being hungry, of course - neither of them are likely to forget what that feels like in the near future - but there’s anticipation gnawing at the sides of his stomach too, for Charon to sit down across from him like that night a few weeks ago. He wants to feel that close to him again.  
  
“I made seafood,” Charon tells him. “Softshell mirelurk and rice. Risotto, I suppose.”  
  
“I don’t think I’ve ever eaten risotto before.” Gob smiles. “Carol had, though. Before the bombs. She always promised Greta and me that she’d cook one up someday. Guess I left before she had the chance.”  
  
“Do you never wish to go back to Underworld? You know I would escort you.”  
  
“I know. I… I just don’t know if I ever could. Leave Megaton, I mean. The only experience I have of the wasteland is the two days I managed by myself before the slavers got me. Two days of failed scavenging and monsters bigger than houses and insects that spit acid at me. And then the two worst weeks of my life at Paradise Falls. Not sure I could face that again. I know that makes me sound like even more of a coward.”  
  
Charon rounds the table, scoops a generous helping of rice onto a plate and puts it in front of Gob. “You are not a coward. And Paradise Falls is gone now. Burned to the ground. Eulogy Jones and his cronies are long dead.”  
  
“But there are always others,” Gob echoes. “Worse ones, maybe. I’ve heard stories about the Pitt.”  
  
Charon doesn’t disagree, just serves up the mirelurk meat with a grimace. “Still. I would keep you safe. I know that perhaps today didn’t demonstrate the best of my abilities, but I am a more than competent bodyguard.”  
  
“I know that,” Gob tells him. “I know.”  
  
“Today was a mistake. A grievous error on my part, for which I can only apologise, sincerely. But Gob, I have watched many employers before you suffer injuries that I was too late or too careless to prevent, and I have never _cared_  so much before. I will never let anything like that happen again. I swear it. I do not think I could bear it.”  
  
Without thinking, Gob reaches across the table to grasp Charon’s hand in his own. His palm is still hot from standing at the stove, calloused where there’s still skin and leathery where there’s not. Charon blinks in surprise.  
  
“It doesn’t matter now,” Gob says, for something to fill the silence. He drops Charon’s hand after a minute, feeling bashful but not quite wanting the ground to swallow him, not just yet. “C’mon, I’ll take a plate up to Nova and then we can eat this risotto, okay?”  
  
“I-I did not assume we would be eating together,” Charon says as Gob’s getting up, and when Gob turns to meet his eyes he looks alarmed, as though Gob’s taken one of his guns and raised the barrel to his head. “Even when physical punishment wasn’t offered, I assumed… past precedent would dictate I would be denied food. To… atone.”  
  
Gob feels something deep inside him break, and for a long minute he just stands there, unable to move, like his feet have suddenly grown roots. “Charon…”  
  
“I did not make enough for three.”  
  
The words nearly snap a laugh out of Gob. If he’d been a man of weaker self-control, he’d be howling with it, the kind of nervous laughter that died around Colin Moriarty. But Charon looks _stricken_ , and Gob realises he’s only set the table for one, and then there isn’t enough breath left in his lungs to laugh. “Then we’ll share. Nova barely eats anything nowadays anyway. Just let me shuffle these plates around a little and we’ll be good to go.”  
  
Gob’s an expert at rationing, and soon the food’s distributed across three plates instead of two, and there’s still plenty to go around. He delivers Nova’s to her bed, presses a kiss to her forehead before he retreats, and it’s good to see her nearly clear-eyed for the first time in what feels like years. Even through the pain in his arm and the memory of this afternoon, Gob feels something like happiness flutter in his ribcage.  
  
There’s bread in the cupboard too, and Gob splits the cob between himself and Charon before he sits down to eat. “Here. Tuck in. And please, Charon, believe me, I would _never_ ,” Gob stresses. “I’d never deny you food. Or anything. Please know that. I don’t care what you’ve seen people become. I would never.”  
  
Charon’s looking at him with something that looks strangely, impossibly, like admiration, which is crazy coming from him. Charon isn’t impressed by much. But he’s really looking at Gob like he’s a wonder, like he’s just descended from another planet with a cure for a nuclear wasteland.  
  
“I know,” he says, and the words feel like a revelation. “I do not know how it can be true, but I know it is.”  
  
Then they eat, and it’s good. It really is. Charon’s cooking is Gourmand standard, probably, if Gob was rich enough or worldly enough to really understand what that means, and the radio’s piping out a love song, and Gob’s heart feels happy despite everything. It’s all he can do not to reach back across the tabletop and link their fingers together, but he doesn’t, because of course it’s too soon, too _much_ , and that’s fine too.  
  
As they’re washing up, there’s a loud rap at the door. Gob instantly moves to get it, ready to turn more customers away - it’s not like he ever asked to run a bar, is it? - and hardly finds it in him to be shocked to find Simms on his doorstep again. Nova’s safe in her bed, as far as he knows, so the throb of uncertainty in his gut isn’t so bad this time. But Simms looks grave, hat in hand, and when he asks to come in Gob’s voice shakes in response.  
  
“What’s this about, sir?”  
  
“There’s been an incident. I really think it’s best we do this inside.”  
  
Gob shrinks back, his body responding to the authority before his brain has a chance to step in, and lets Simms inside, lets the door rattle shut behind them. Simms hovers by the bar, fidgeting with his hat, a wary eye straying to Charon, who’s standing there with dishwater up to his elbows. At least he’s wearing a t-shirt now.  
  
“I have some bad news, gentlemen,” Simms says. He’s really the only person Gob can ever imagine referring to two ghouls as _gentlemen_  in his own town, but the word comes out sincere, at least. “Jericho was found dead in his home around an hour ago. An overdose, looks like. And seeing as though there was an altercation reported here this morning, I’d like to ask your, er, bodyguard a few questions.”  
  
“What? Charon didn’t do anything wrong! Sir,” Gob adds before he can stop himself. “You just said he overdosed!”  
  
“It looks like the overdose might have been an attempt at pain management for a serious leg injury. There’ve been witness reports of… Charon following Jericho out of here with a gun. Shots were heard. His injuries correspond with the witness statements.”  
  
“I will answer any questions you have,” Charon says, rounding the front of the bar with a dishcloth to wipe his hands with. “But know that I acted in defence of my employer and his business. The man came in here this morning with a knife.”  
  
“I thought he might’ve done something stupid,” Simms admits, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Still. I can’t just let this one go, gentlemen. If you’d accompany me to my office, Charon.”  
  
“With Gob’s permission,” Charon says, letting his eyes flicker to Gob’s for a moment. He nods almost imperceptibly, and Gob trusts him implicitly to handle this.  
  
“Of course. If there’s a problem, come get me, okay?”  
  
It still hurts like hell to watch them leave.


	7. Chapter 7

The day Moriarty took a bullet to the face, Gob undercharged someone on a beer.

To be fair to Colin, it had been a monumentally idiotic mistake to make, one Gob realised he’d made as soon as the man turned away to count his caps. Looking down at the ten caps in his ragged palm and realising he was six short, Gob let out a choked sound, half intending to call the man back. He was from out of town, a scavenger up from D.C., probably thought Gob was just being friendly after he mentioned his trade deals with Underworld.

And to be fair to _Gob_ , he hadn’t slept properly for almost a week, and ten caps tend to look like sixteen when you’re squinting at them through hooded eyes. Nova’d caught something from one of her clients, something that kept her holed up in bed with too many blankets and a roaring fever, something that - more importantly - kept her from entertaining guests. And since Colin was decent enough not to hit her while she was busy coughing her lungs up, he made up for it by hitting Gob enough for two.

So every night, on his spot on the floor behind the bar with only a ratty sheet thrown over him for warmth, Gob listened for Moriarty clattering about in the back room. Usually he could tell by the sound of his footsteps if he was planning on waking him with a boot to the face or groin, or else he’d hear him slamming things around - a pint glass, a book, his terminal - and that was Gob’s cue to brace himself.

The anger always flowed out of the man. He’d hear Nova cough too loudly or scream herself awake from a fever dream, or he’d catch sight of his depleting cap purse and remember what he bought a slave for in the first place.

So on balance, six caps were the last straw.

Colin saw it all from his spot behind the bar. Saw Gob staring fuzzily at his ten caps, saw the customer’s grin at the discount, saw Gob’s hesitation as he drew to a stuttering halt, hand frozen above the cash register. Saw his opportunity.

“Don’t remember lowerin’ me prices, boyo,” Moriarty announced, taking a step closer. Gob could feel the heat of the other man’s breath at the back of his neck, the cloying humidity of another body at his back. His hand tightened around the caps, sharp metal digging into the open flesh of his palm. “Ten caps for a pint is practically a _steal._ ”

“I’ll call him back, Mr. Moriarty, sir. Just give me one second, please-“

“The damage has already bin’ done, lad.”

“Please-“

Gob squeezed his eyes shut. Over the years, he’d learned that the only thing to do when Moriarty was in one of his moods was to wait for the pain to pass. It nearly always did. Gob retreated to a quiet black room, locked away at the back of his head, a place of waiting.

“Can I have yer attention, everyone!” Moriarty’s booming voice called out. The man always did have a soft spot for theatrics. Gob let the caps clatter to the counter, dug his nails into his own thigh and wished - not for the first time - that all of this could just be over with.

“My _employee_  here has suddenly decided that the Saloon is offering discount on the price of our beer!” A small, hesitant cheer rose up around the bar, and a hearty laugh erupted from Moriarty.. “But don’t get your hopes up, folks. ‘Cause here in Megaton, here in _the real world_ , we don’t take business advice from _corpses_!” At this, a hand snatched out to grip Gob’s upper arm in a bruising pinch, and jeers rung out from the gathered punters. Moriarty laughed louder.

“Look at ‘im! It’s a wonder the poor lad can still stand, all that flesh that’s sloughed off ‘im. I should find ye a lovely coffin, Gobbie, bury ye out back, ‘cause ye clearly belong in one!”

Gob didn’t open his eyes. Let it come. Let the punches and the words rush over him, let them end this-

“But ye’ll have to earn it, rotter. No discount on burials in this economy! And you just haven’t bin’ working hard enough. Eh, well. A bit of physical labour never hurt anyone.” The grip on his arm didn’t let up, just built to a vicious, biting agony. Then, a barely audible hiss right into the shell of Gob’s ear. “Oh, wait. I lied.”

The first punch was still nearly a surprise. It caught Gob on the side of his jaw, knocking him sideways into the bar. The second was delivered to his ribs and he collapsed, slamming the back of his head into the wood and dredging a keening cry out of his lungs.

“Ah, shut yer face, ghoul. You’re only gettin’ what was comin’ to ye.”

The truth, however much it stung to hear it. More blows, to the side of his face, to his stomach, between his legs. Pain so bright it might as well have been fire licking at what’s left of his body. A blow so hard to the side of his head that Gob thought his brain must’ve come loose and started rattling around his skull. Stars erupted across his vision, and a fiery ache settled down his spinal cord.

 _Atom, just let it be over. Let him lock me in a box and bury me out back. Even for a ghoul, starving to death would be quicker than this_.

He was on the verge of blessed, wonderful darkness when the door to the Saloon banged open and Moriarty stopped to see who’d arrived. Gob couldn’t see through the veneer of his own blood even when he managed to pry his aching eyelids open.

“What the fuck have you done?”

Lane.

The kid always was insane. Moriarty had barred him the previous week for trying to slip Gob a hefty tip, then smashed Gob around his head with the bag of caps. And he was really in for it now.

“Everybody out!” Lane boomed. His voice alone was enough to send people scuttling, abandoning drinks on tables. Even if the people of Megaton wanted a show, Lane had filled out his clothes considerably in the past few months, and he cut a menacing figure with his rifle already braced across his front. A few glasses got knocked to the ground in the scuffle, and each time Gob winced at the noise, knowing he’d be on his hands and knees later cleaning the shards up, knowing Colin would nudge him into the debris with a foot up his backside. Gob could already feel the bite of glass in flesh.

The last few stragglers let the door bang shut behind them, and Moriarty gazed out at Lane and Charon with something that - on anyone else - Gob would be tempted to call fear.

“You’re going to kill him.”

“Nah, not quite yet, lad. The corpse’s still got a few more decades of work in ‘im yet.”

Decades. Gob couldn’t take another week, never mind another ten years. He’d throw himself off the balcony. He’d slit his own wrists with a smashed bottle. He’d-

“You’re going to back the fuck away from him, right now.” Lane’s voice was dangerous, closer to a growl than speech. Through the red mist over his vision Gob could see him standing in the doorway, gun drawn, and the shadow of Charon looming behind.

Charon shouldn’t be seeing him like this.

“Or what, lad? Yer gonna shoot me in me own bar?”

“Got it in one.”

“Ye wouldn’t _dare._ ”

“Try me.”

Moriarty never was one to retreat from a challenge. He raised his arm to backhand Gob once more across the face, and Gob returned to his dark room, hoping this one last blow would be enough to finally, _finally_  put him out of his misery.

It never came.

Lane’s shot echoed around the room, and Moriarty’s blood painted the bar wall a glorious shade of scarlet. The face was almost unrecognisable, Simms told him later. Like he’d been bludgeoned. Gob’s face hadn’t fared much better.

“Is he dead?” Lane asked, and Charon lumbered over to check.

“Yes.”

“Gob.” Lane’s voice came closer then, and hands began plucking at his clothes, trying to see the worst of the injuries. Gob looked past him to Charon, who was pacing the back of the room looking distressed.

“We gotta get you to Church, Gob. Do you think you can stand?” Lane was asking, and Gob couldn’t find it in him to say a single word in response. What must Charon think of him, spattered on the floor like a dead bloatfly, _weak,_ when Charon himself had been through so much more? “Gob. Can you hear me? You need to see a doctor.”

“M’fine,” Gob managed. “Don’t need a doctor.”

“Charon, do we have any stimpaks? Are there any behind the bar, Gob?” Lane asked, as though Gob hadn’t spoken. Maybe he hadn’t, maybe the words couldn’t make it out of his ruined throat. The thought of never having to speak again, never having the chance to fuck anything up again, was indescribably comforting.

Charon went to rummage around for a first aid kit, leaving Lane to prop Gob up against the bar with surprisingly gentle hands. He drifted in and out of blissful unconsciousness for a while, punctuated by the occasional pinprick of medicine being injected, and then felt arms lifting him. Strong arms. When he turned to nuzzle into the chest of the strong-armed person, Gob caught sight of leather armour and ragged skin, and oh Christ, it was Charon carrying him, Charon’s arms he was braced in…

“I don’ need a doctor,” Gob tried to say again, just in case they really thought Church wouldn’t object to wasting his medical supplies on a ghoul.

“I am taking you to bed,” Charon grunted.

“Oh,” Gob replied. Then, “I thought we’d at leas’ have a few drinks firs’.” He could hear himself slurring the words but couldn’t quite figure out how to make his tongue fit his mouth again.

Charon didn’t even pretend to laugh, regardless. Gob felt himself being put down gently on a mattress somewhere, felt pillows being plumped beneath his pounding head, and then thick blankets being drawn over him.

“I will fetch irradiated water for your wounds. The stimpaks seem to have worked for the worst of the cuts. You will not require stitches.”

Gob felt him turn to leave, felt his own hand shoot out from under the blankets to clutch Charon’s in his. “Stay. Please. Don’t leave me.”

“Christ,” he heard Charon mutter, sounding wrecked, and felt awful for it. Still, the other ghoul collapsed into a rickety chair, drew it closer to Gob’s bedside. Didn’t withdraw his hand.

“You need to sleep,” Charon said after a minute. “To heal.”

“M’okay. I’ve had worse.” Although, in retrospect, he wasn’t sure he _had_. “What’s Lane gonna tell the Sheriff?”

“Don’t worry about that. He will work something out.”

“Yeah. M’sorry. Shouldn’t keep you up here. Y’wanna go back to him?”

“No.”

“Oh. Okay. Should probably talk to him m’self, though. Later. M’tired.”

“Then sleep,” Charon intoned. “Everything is alright now. He cannot hurt you.”

Gob’s eyes fluttered shut of their own accord, but he dimly recognised Charon’s words as the truth. Colin Moriarty was dead. Gob - somehow, maybe - was safe.

“Christ, Gob.” Charon’s voice came from miles away. “You could have died. He would have killed you. We were almost too late.” A pause, a breath. “I am sorry it took this long. But it’s over now. You’re safe.” And, through the haze of his first dream, Gob felt a hesitant kiss pressed to the knuckles of his left hand.

* * *

 

It took three days for Gob to find his voice long enough to face fielding Simms’ questions. The sheriff came to take a preliminary statement from Gob’s bedside only to return the day after with a request that he come down to the office for a formal interview.

Standing, he found once he’d levered himself out of bed, was difficult. Breathing, too. Dressing himself - almost impossible with nobody in the immediate vicinity to assist. Charon and Lane were downstairs; they’d taken to spending their nights at the Saloon, tending to Gob’s bandages, bringing him soup - the only thing he could stomach with minimal pain - and keeping watch in shifts. Nova was still camped out in her own room, mostly oblivious to the commotion going on around her. Gob couldn’t bear the thought of hollering for Lane or Charon to help him get his arms through a t-shirt or (Atom forbid) struggle into a pair of pants. It was unthinkable.

Crusty, blood-stained pyjamas it was.

Getting the door open was just about manageable, but the stairs presented a new challenge. One arm clenched around his middle to stem the pain in his ribs and another awkwardly extended for the banister, Gob began to ease himself down. One foot in front of the other. He had enough practice at walking after a beating; just none at being able to convalesce for days. It made him ache in a hundred new ways, and his head was still throbbing, and one of his eyes still swollen nearly shut-

“Gob? Where d’you think you’re going?”

Lane. Perched on a barstool, peeling the label off a beer, head turned to watch Gob amble his way downstairs. He jumped to his feet at the sight of him, moving forward only to pause uncertainly at the foot of the stairs, because where could he touch that wouldn’t cause more pain?

Not that Gob deserved that kind of thinking. Four days in bed meant nobody to tend bar, and nobody to tend bar meant no drinks were being sold, and that meant Lane was losing caps. Gob owes the man more than his life; he owes him whatever debt Colin had written him up for. Sooner he could start working on paying it back, the better. God only knows how much he’d wracked up just lying comatose upstairs…

“Sheriff wants to see me,” Gob croaked, trying not to sound too apologetic. Hardly his fault. “‘Bout Moriarty.”

“What? He already questioned me. I confessed to everything. Why does he want to talk to you again?”

“I dunno, smoothskin,” Gob said. “I’ll try not to take too long.” He headed for the door, swung it open, teetered out onto the balcony. Lane was behind him in an instant, one arm braced gently across Gob’s back.

“Let me come with you. D’you want me to carry you? It might be easier, you shouldn’t be walking all that way like this. Or I could get Charon-“

“I’m fine, Lane. Really. I got this.” The thought of Charon seeing him like this… it was too much. Even after nightly vigils at Gob’s bedside, when he’s probably seen worse, being unconscious had the delightful upside of not being aware of the other ghoul’s eyes on him. On a couple of occasions Gob had woken up in the middle of the night, needing to piss but unable to move, and caught sight of Charon in his usual chair, asleep or reading or existing in brooding silence. Those were the best nights, even though his bladder screamed at him and the pain in his temples was close to unbearable.

“If you’re sure.”

“I am. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Gob was fine. He made it to Simms’ house without incident, sat himself down in a rigid wooden chair and trembled and called Simms ‘sir’. Got accused of murder.

Hardly had it in him to defend himself.

“I didn’t murder Mr. Moriarty, sir. He was gonna kill me, and Lane stepped in to help. He was acting in defence, Sheriff, sir.”

“Thing is, Gob, Lane hardly had motive. You’ve already admitted Colin was beating you so badly you feared for your life. Wouldn’t be a big step to defend yourself against him, would it? If you really thought he was going to kill you?”

“I don’t have a gun, sir.”

“Lane had a rifle. His big buddy was armed to the teeth. Wouldn’t have been difficult to grab one of their weapons, especially after Lane conveniently emptied the Saloon of patrons. No eyewitnesses except those who’re willing to corroborate your statement.”

“I was on the floor, sir. I couldn’t get up even if I wanted to shoot the basta- Mr. Moriarty.”

“Look, kid, I’m not trying to give you a hard time. I know Colin Moriarty was hardly a pillar of the community, and I know how badly he treated you. None of that was fair, but the fact remains that a Megaton resident has died. It’s my duty as Sheriff to find the person responsible and punish them accordingly. Now you’re in no state to be banished, and I’m hardly going to execute you, but a confession would make this thing a lot tidier. A few months in a jail cell, a slap on the wrist. People will revolt if there isn’t a clear system in place, especially with the Saloon closed for business, Gob, and with things as shaky as they are outside, the town needs stability. Order. Justice. Hell, alcohol.” Simms’ chuckle echoed around the dusty room.

“Lane needs me to tend bar. I can’t go to jail, sir, I have debts to pay. I need-“ Gob could feel himself getting hysterical, but his voice refused to steady, and his knees were trembling so badly they were knocking together under Simms’ desk. Months. They were talking months. Months of debt, months that he couldn’t afford to lose. He’d never get out of here.

Simms looked awkward, took off his hat and worried the material between his fingers. Eventually he sighed, said, “Look, kid, it’s alright. It’s gonna be alright. I guess we do already have a confession. Lane’s done a lot for Megaton. People aren’t gonna be happy to find out he’s responsible for this. It’s a dilemma: either I lock him up and they’re pissed that their hero is out of commission, or I let it slide and they decide they can go around shooting people who look at ‘em the wrong way. It puts me in a bad position.”

“Moriarty deserved it,” Gob hissed, feeling something raw sizzling underneath his bruised skin. How could Simms sit there and lament the loss? Play it off as some sort of political scandal? It burned him up inside. “Lane’s a good man. He doesn’t deserve to go to prison for saving my life.”

“I know that. I do.” Simms sighed, swiping his hat from his head and a hand across his face. “Look, fine. The less said about this whole mess, the better. No official statement, no announcement, just get the bar open quick smart and start plying people with liquor again. Any questions, you tell them to come to me. Got it?”

“Loud and clear, sir.”

* * *

 

Lane and Charon had their heads together when Gob came back through the front door of the Saloon. They were perched over steaming bowls of food, looking more pensive than they had any right to with noodle tails protruding from their mouths

“Gob. You should not have gone alone, your injuries-“

“Are you okay? What did the Sheriff say-“

“I’m fine. Everything’s okay. He didn’t believe any of it, but he’s letting it go, s’long as the bar’s open tomorrow.”

“Fuck that,” Lane grunted. “Bastard acts all high and mighty but he’s happy to look away from slavery happening right under his nose. I should go down there-“

“Don’t,” Gob said, trying not to whine and half succeeding. “It’s fine. It’s over now. I’ll get the place ready for tomorrow - are you done with the bowls?” They were - Gob collected them both and hobbled through to the sink to wash up, hardly noticing the shock on Lane’s face until the man came up behind him.

“Gob, what are you doing.” It wasn’t not a question, not really. Lane’s voice sounded frighteningly empty, and Gob’s hands stilled, letting the sponge and bowl in his grip fall slack.

“I’m wash- washing up.” He managed to keep the _sir_ on his tongue, but only barely. “It won’t take me a minute, and then I’ll get right out and make sure the bar’s clean. Honest. I don’t think the blood from the other day stained, but I’ll scrub the floor again just in case-“

“I don’t know what you think this is,” Lane said, slowly. “But you don’t need to clean anything. You need to be in bed.”

“I can’t. I gotta make sure everything’s ready for tomorrow, so you don’t lose any more caps, and then I’ll start paying you back. Really. Every last cap, I swear.” He resumed scrubbing, as vigorously as he could with both wrists slightly incapacitated. He refused to let the resulting pain shooting both arms deter him from the task.

Lane didn’t say anything for a long moment, and then withdrew to the bar. Gob let a little of the tension bleed out of his frame, set the bowls to dry on the sideboard and wiped his hands off on a dishcloth. This was good. Normal. Restoring the balance between them. Gob already owed Lane enough - he didn’t need the other man’s kindness on top of everything else.

He was just reaching for the mop when Lane came clomping through the bar again. Charon was still seated, looking on with something between concern and amusement as the boy stopped Gob in his tracks, holding a ragged manila envelope out in front of him. An offering.

“Here. I was only holding onto it until everything settled down with Simms,” Lane said, voice hushed. “I never intended to keep what’s rightfully yours.”

Gob took the envelope. The paper was worn, flapping open at the back - easy enough to slide the contents out into his ragged palm, unfold them with trembling fingers.

“You can’t give me this,” he echoed, feeling their eyes on him, feeling _sick_. “It isn’t mine, I don’t-“

“Yours and Nova’s. It’s your bar now, Gob. You get to do whatever you want with it - keep it, sell it. Whatever. But you don’t owe me anything, okay? And you certainly don’t owe the Sheriff anything, so if you don’t feel ready to open up-“

“I’m fine,” Gob insisted, out of habit more than anything else. “Lane... you should take this. You killed Moriarty, it technically belongs to you. I-“

“Know a hell of a lot more about running a bar than I do. And you’ve been Moriarty’s slave long enough, Gob - it’s time you reaped the rewards of the business, right? So - just take it. You and Nova. And you know I’ll be here if you need me, right?”

Gob scanned the words of the deed again, feeling his heart thump out an irregular rhythm in his still burning ribcage. Felt the arthritic ache in his joints where his fingers were clenched around the paper. Imagined his name above the door, waking up each morning knowing his debt was gone for the first time in fifteen years.

Freedom. Foreign after all this time.

But fuck if it didn’t feel good.

* * *

 

Charon sits rigid in a straight-backed chair in Simms’ home office, accused of murder with the man’s frown directed towards him, and can only summon a sense of weary disgruntlement at being dragged here.

Lane was right - the man is a hypocrite. Hard eyes shining out of a kind face, smile showing just enough teeth to smart.

“I know your shot didn’t kill him,” Simms begins. He’s taken off his hat and placed it on the table between them like a peace offering or a safety barrier, and Charon would like nothing more than to sweep it onto the floor, see the man tense. Give himself the upper hand. As it is, he remains sitting with his hands in his lap, thinking of Ahzrukhal.

 _Good dog_.

When Charon says nothing in response, Simms shifts uncomfortably in his seat anyway, clears his throat. “But Jericho overdosed after you injured him. And yes, I know that you were defending Gob. This isn’t about that.”

“Then what is it about?” he asks. What he doesn’t say: _why is defending Gob a criminal offence but torturing him worthy of protection?_

“Have you seen these before?” Simms asks, taking something from an inside pocket and sliding it across the table to Charon. He withdraws his hand too quickly.

It’s a baggie. Chems, most likely, six fat pink pills with no markings. But there’s an insignia on the plastic, upside-down from where he’s sitting, and Charon could swear-

“They were found on Jericho’s body. Found traces of it around his mouth, too. You know anything about them?”

“No,” Charon says. “I have never seen these before.”

“He mention anything about chems when he came into the Saloon, maybe?”

“Yes,” he answers, because Gob does not deserve to be dragged down here again. “Someone gave them to him in exchange for his assault on Gob.”

“That seems awfully strange, doesn’t it? Why would anyone want to attack Gob?” There’s a cruel little smile poking at Simms’ mouth, like he’s caught Charon in a lie.

“I do not know.”

“Only I hear he holds your reins now. Your contract, right? Who wouldn’t want to escape that? It’s understandable, really. You get rid of Gob, you get rid of your contract.”

“That is not how it works.”

“Sure it is.”

“No,” Charon says with enough bite that Simms reels back from the desk a little. “It is not. If Gob had been killed I would have torn the contract from his corpse and handed it to the next person I saw. Who would’ve happened to be the scum that just overdosed on these pills, who treated ghouls like worse than shit. You think I would choose that life, a slave to an ex-Raider who would like nothing more than to cause me pain?”

Simms falls silent, scrubs a hand across his face, looking suddenly exhausted and ten years younger. “I apologise. I didn’t know.”

“No. You didn’t,” Charon spits. “Gob is a good man. I am happy in his employ, and I do not wish to cause him harm.”

“Alright. Shit, okay. Look, if you think of anything that might help, you let me know, okay? And if you remember seeing anything about these-“ Simms spins the baggie around to face Charon, and now the symbol is the right way up and-

It hits him in a rush.

_He’s upright in a chair, tied this time, hands wrenched behind his back and ropes burning against the skin at his wrists. Someone is forcing open his mouth, and there is a loud rumbling sound from around his feet, and-_

_He’s in a small white room, sitting cross-legged on a stone floor. There is no bed, no furniture other than a metal bucket in one corner where they let him relieve himself on the days he can stand. The door is always locked except when they come inside with the cattle prod, force him to his feet. A metal tray is posted through twice a day with two fat pink pills in the centre in place of food, and if Charon does not swallow them they beat him bloody and force the tablets down his raw throat anyway. He feels-_

_Trapped, in a lab this time, strapped to a gurney. Blinding white lights and needle pricks at the crook of his elbow and a bone saw through his skull and-_

_Sirens, the clattering of wheels on stone floors, men in lab coats flowing past and pain, pain across his body and in his head and through it all, a voice that tells him to stay put, someone will be with him soon, and he battles through the pain and the sickness and an ice pick agony through his eyes and-_

A man, or perhaps two men, watching him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with my abhorrent update schedule guys! Warnings here for gory images, references to past slavery, and gross misuse of italics (as usual). 
> 
> Also it totally makes sense to me that Gob would be a little agoraphobic after everything.

It’s late when Charon gets back, and Gob has already fallen asleep slumped over the couch behind the bar. Charon lets himself inside as quietly as he can, locks the door securely behind him, and risks a glance inside, catches sight of the other man snoring with one hand loosely propping his head up. Gob looks almost… peaceful.

  
Best not to disturb him. Charon turns back towards the bar, intending to sweep up and stack the chairs like Ahzrukhal used to bid him at the Ninth Circle, but then he spies a half empty whiskey bottle open on the counter and strays towards it without thinking.

  
He shouldn’t. He needs a clear head after today, with Simms still sniffing around and Jericho dead of a mystery overdose and Gob bleeding against the bar again and-

  
It’s all too much. Charon pours himself three generous fingers of whiskey, downs the liquid in one gulp and refills the glass to the brim. He slumps down in a wooden chair that creaks beneath his weight and scrapes a rotten hand through what’s left of his hair, letting the whiskey burn his throat while Gob’s soft snuffles filter in from the back room. He wants to…

  
To what? Settle himself beside him with Gob’s feet in his lap, stroke a ragged finger down his cheek? Check his bandages? Wake him with a gentle hand on his shoulder, tell him…

  
“Fuck,” Charon curses, because he can’t think like that. He _can’t_. Gob deserves a damn sight more than Charon. Deserves better than he’s ever gotten.

  
Charon doesn’t realise he’s shaking until the glass in his hand knocks against the tabletop. He tightens his fingers around it, just short of squeezing, seeing only white walls and metal gurneys and _pain_ , bright and blooming, so much pain that the thought of it still threatens to double him over. He’d forgotten, somehow, sort of. The memory of his conditioning sat at the back of his hindbrain, dulled and fragmented, grey shadows in place of gleaming white. He must’ve been, what, twenty-five? Thirty, maybe? Then the bombs, and the radiation sickness, and a year or so of nothing but darkness, and then they’d tipped him out into the Wasteland a slave.

  
There are gaps, of course. Who they were. How he got there. Whether the bombs dropping was a real memory or whether he’d just filled in the blanks. After all, why would they leave him? Why would they carry on? Why didn’t they care about the damage they were doing?

  
His head is pounding suddenly, and he’s fucking sick of headaches, sick of _thinking_. The whiskey bottle is almost empty - he downs the rest of it in one swig, slams it down hard enough on the table that he worries for a moment that he’s woken Gob. There’s no stirring from the back room, though, and after a minute Charon gathers his wits enough to stagger to his feet. Takes himself to bed on trembling legs instead of keeping watch like the loyal guard dog they made him into.

* * *

 

Smashing glass rips Charon out of his own nightmare and into a new one, and he jolts upright. The bedroom is still dark, and Charon’s wearing nothing but boxers and a loose black t-shirt, but he grabs his shotgun from where it’s propped against the wall and stumbles for the door regardless, visions of a break-in swimming through the haze of his vision while he takes the stairs three at a time.

  
Gun already braced in his hands, Charon takes stock of the empty bar and winds through to the back room. No crippling pain in his frontal lobe, not yet, so Gob must be okay, he _must_ , he cannot die on Charon’s watch-

  
But he hadn’t been watching. He should’ve stayed, should’ve stood over Gob all damn night rather than risk his employer’s life. Because he must not forget that Gob has crossed the boundary between _friend_  and _master_ , cannot take his leeway for granted, _must not_ -

  
Gob is standing by the sink, a smashed glass littering the floor at his feet, and at the sight of Charon he crumples to his knees as though he’s been kicked. A keening sound is ripped from the cavity of his throat, and the glass must be biting into the flesh of his bare feet but he doesn’t move except to raise trembling arms to cover his head.

  
“Gob?” Charon whispers, almost afraid to disturb the darkness. He sets the shotgun aside on a counter, falls to his knees on the ground across from Gob and wonders where to touch him that will not startle him further.

  
“Please,” Gob whines helplessly, drawing out the middle vowels. “Please don’t. I’ll clean it up right away, I swear, just please, please don’t-“

  
“Gob,” Charon tries again, reaching out to tug Gob’s wrists down so he can see his face, somehow convince him to open his eyes and see the world for what it is once more. Gob cringes away from the touch like it burns. “It’s Charon. You are safe, Gob. You’re safe.”

  
“Please, Mr. Moriarty, sir, I didn’t mean to, please don’t hit me-“

  
Something in Charon breaks. He never got much of a chance to see how Moriarty treated Gob, not really, because a week after their arrival Lane blasted the man’s head off his shoulders. But if he’d known sooner, he would’ve dragged the bastard’s pain out a hell of a lot longer, would’ve seen him suffer the way he wanted Ahzrukhal to suffer, wanted all the others to hurt-

  
But this is not about them, and Gob deserves comfort a hell of a lot more than they deserve a second thought. Not that Charon is skilled at offering much of the former, but for Gob, he’ll try. He very slowly takes hold of Gob’s arms and lowers them, revealing unseeing eyes and a face streaked with tears. “Gob. You are safe. It is just the two of us.” One arm draws around the other ghoul’s back, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades, and the other tangles their fingers together in Charon’s lap.

  
In the space of what feels like a century but is realistically just a few minutes, Gob’s sobbing tapers off and his eyes blink open, seeking out Charon and the glass around them and the faucet still dripping water above them. “What…”

  
“Sleepwalking,” Charon offers, finding himself unable to form a full sentence. “You were… asleep.”

  
“Oh,” Gob whispers. “I- sorry. I guess I got thirsty.”

  
“You do not need to apologise,” Charon hisses, and Gob jumps back at the sound. “Never again, Gob. You hear me? You do not need to be sorry for anything.” His arm is still rubbing Gob’s back, Charon realises, suddenly uncomfortable. If he still had skin on his face he’d be blushing, but Gob seems to sense his awkwardness and leans back into the touch, just a little, just enough to keep him there.

  
“I am the one who should apologise. I was not there for you when I should have been, when you were there for me all that time in Underworld. I should have protected you, shouldn’t have let you head out alone. I should have tried harder,” he admits, hanging his head. “But Moriarty is dead now. He cannot hurt you anymore.”

  
“I know that,” Gob echoes, but he doesn’t sound sure. He rocks back into Charon’s arms, still tense, still hurting. “None of this is your fault either, Charon. You couldn’t have done anything. You were tied to your fucking corner and I was a fucking idiot who thought I could get you help-“

  
“You… what?”

  
“I wanted to free you. That’s… why I left, I guess. I was so sick of standing around while Ahzrukhal treated you like shit, and then I heard him threaten to lease you out to the slavers at Paradise Falls and I just couldn’t- So I left. Thought I’d head out to the Temple of the Union to get help, only I was stupid enough to get caught before I even made it out of the city.”

  
Charon slumps forward on the floor, stunned. Gob wanted to free him. Gob is a slave because of _him_.

  
“Yes,” Charon hears himself say. “You were incredibly stupid.”

  
“Wh- Charon-“ Gob tries, finally pulling away from Charon’s grasp and fuck, he _deserves_  it.

  
“To risk your life for me! When I had done nothing for you except drain your resources and offer broken bits of conversation, ignored you, _threatened_ you.” Because he had, when Ahzrukhal jerked a thumb in Gob’s direction when he lingered too long, and threats were preferable to fists, but the sad look in the other man’s eyes when he snapped told Charon otherwise. “I was not worth it, Gob. I am still not worth it, you stupid,  _stupid_  man-“

  
Gob kisses him.

  
Kisses him with tears running down his face and with enough force to rock Charon back on his heels, one arm flying back up around Gob’s back to steady him or push him off or drag him closer.

  
It’s over too soon. Gob pulls back so suddenly his hand jerks out to catch himself and lands in the puddle of glass, winces at the sharp pain and the blood welling to the surface of his palm. Charon is caught between panting for breath and extracting them both from the danger, his mind warring with his contract until he finally gets to his feet and offers Gob a hand up.

  
“I will get the first aid kit,” Charon offers, already reaching for it. Gob thunks down in a chair and holds his hand away from his face, balking at the blood, a walking contradiction. How he has gone so long without growing accustomed to it baffles Charon, who is used to picking stray bullets out of himself on what not so long ago a daily basis.

  
“I can take care of it myself,” Gob mutters when Charon places the box between them. He’s still blinking sleepily, but there’s something hard burning just below the surface of his expression. “You should go back to bed. I’m sorry for waking you.”

  
“I am more than capable.” He removes tweezers and a bottle of rad water from the box, finds a few old bandaids stuck by the bottom and takes them out too. “I will not hurt you.”

  
“I know that. Just… this isn’t your problem. I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry, Charon, I didn’t mean to-“

  
“If you’d prefer, we can forget about what just happened.”

  
“I- yeah. If that’s what you want.” Gob uncurls his hand until it’s lying between them, and Charon oh so carefully begins to pluck the shards of broken glass from his flesh, following each bite of pain with a dab of rad water to soothe the injury. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  
“You did not,” Charon says curtly. He peels a bandaid and presses it gently to the biggest cut, then moves to take Gob’s ankle to get to his feet, sliding his pyjama pants up his calf to reach the wounds. Gob shivers under his ministrations and goes limp, and Charon is all too familiar with how a kind touch feels after centuries without. It doesn’t mean his touch is anything special.

  
Gob’s, however.

  
“You can’t tell me you wanted that.”

  
“The circumstances were not ideal,” Charon admits, rubbing a soothing path across Gob’s ankle just to see him shiver. “And it was more than I deserve. But that does not mean I didn’t want to.” The last of the glass is out, and Charon watches while the sole of Gob’s foot knits itself back together from the rads. No need for a stimpak this time.

  
Gob opens his mouth to reply but the words catch on a yawn, and Charon is all too aware that it is still the middle of the night and Gob’s sleep has been interrupted by a sharp spike of adrenaline. He folds the med kit away neatly and stands up from the table to replace it, meaning to make himself scarce.

  
“You should go back to sleep. I will keep watch,” he vows, and means it this time.

  
“No.” The response comes quicker than Charon expected, the clarity of it startling for a second. “You don’t need to.”

  
“I would like to stay close, if you would permit me.”

  
“You… you could stay, if you wanted. Here. With me.” Gob’s gaze strays back to the bed in the corner with its rumpled sheets, one of the pillows tossed haphazardly to the foot of the mattress. It’s a twin - hardly large enough for Charon to fit alone, never mind the two of them comfortably.

  
He could offer to take the floor. He could stand watch at Gob’s bedside, or sit with his knees drawn to his chest with his shotgun clasped above them. But the bed looks sad in the dim moonlight filtering in through the cracks in the tin walls, and Charon only extends his hand to Gob and leads him towards the stairs, settles the other man on the left side of the queen and closes the door before sliding in beside him, drawing an arm around Gob’s waist.

  
“You are safe,” he whispers into Gob’s neck. “I will keep you safe.”

* * *

Gob is an early riser out of necessity, and months of freedom have done nothing to break the habit of decades. He wakes before Charon does, wriggles out of the safety net of his arms to go downstairs and make breakfast, clean the glass from last night up. The memory of the incident is a hazy one, but the sight of the smashed glass is enough to bring a humiliated flush to his molten cheeks, and he hastily sweeps it up and dumps it in the trash. He’s so _weak_ , still, and Charon had-

  
Charon had seen it, and hadn’t laughed at him. Charon had drawn him into his own bed and into his arms, and Gob had felt truly safe for the first time in nearly sixteen years.

  
Gob piles mirelurk cakes and pre-war coffee onto a tray and takes it back upstairs, sets it gently onto the nightstand. The gentle _c_ _lunk_  is enough to rouse Charon from his own slumber, and Gob has never seen him groggy before. It’s entrancing, the way his eyes flicker open while his guard is still down, his muscles lax, one arm flopping over the edge of the mattress. Gob can’t help but press a kiss to the side of his face before Charon drags himself upright to drink the coffee, not sure if it’s still allowed but hoping the lull of sleep will ease reality into something blurrier.

  
“You stayed,” Charon says, turning his face into the brush of lips and capturing Gob’s mouth.

  
“Of course.” Gob arranges himself back on the bed and takes a cake to nibble on, slipping his hand into Charon’s free one. “Thanks. For last night.”

  
“Thanks are not necessary,” Charon says, and his fingers squeeze momentarily around Gob’s. “Are you feeling better?”

  
“Yeah. I really am.” The silence stretches a little too long to be comfortable, and Gob just wishes he knew where they both stand now. “You never did tell me how it went with Simms. What did he say?”

  
“He has not charged me with anything,” Charon says after a moment. His hands twitch, and Gob knows without thinking that he’s itching for a cigarette. “Insufficient evidence.”

  
“Well, obviously,” Gob mutters. Absent fingers trail across Charon’s exposed flesh, hoping he can feel the comfort through his touch. “Anything else?”

  
“He… showed me some chems. I think I recognised them. I remembered… something. Perhaps from my conditioning, I’m not sure.”

  
“Shit,” Gob breathes, letting out a low whistle. “You okay?”

  
“It brought up a lot of memories I would rather have left buried.” He doesn’t say anything more, just swallows the last mirelurk cake in one bite and chases it with the last dregs of coffee. “Simms does not deserve the title of Sheriff.”

  
Gob just sighs. He knows all too well that Simms is hardly the benevolent mayor-figure everyone thinks he is. A decade and a half of standing by while Colin beat Gob into the bar every day says otherwise.

  
“We still don’t know who gave the chems to Jericho,” he says instead. “Someone paid him off to come in here and do what he did. And someone pushed Nova. Simms might not give enough of a shit what happens to us to go investigating, but something’s definitely going on.” Taking a steadying bite of his own breakfast, Gob steels himself for what he needs to say next. “Charon?”

  
“Yes?” He must sense the hesitancy in his voice, because Charon puts his plate aside and rolls over to face Gob, stroking so gently down his forearm that it’s difficult to believe this is the same man who has tossed drunkards so carelessly down the stairs outside the Ninth Circle, who was once instructed to tear one of Patchwork’s arms right from its socket. Gob watches the reverent touch with a lump forming in his throat.

  
“What did you do with Moriarty’s body?”

  
There’s a horrible second of pause, when Charon’s fingers still against Gob’s arm and the sounds of Nova settling from a few rooms over fall silent. “Gob.”

  
“No, I just- I just want to know. You never said, after…”

  
“Lane insisted on burying it outside of Megaton. I wanted to leave him for the roaches, but he thought you might want somewhere to… mourn. For the time you lost. He actually said ‘something to dance on’, but I assumed that was a Vault reference.”

  
“Can you take me there?” Gob blurts. “And Nova, too. She’ll want to see it.”

  
Charon narrows his eyes to slits and clenches his free fist in the bedsheets, considering. “If that is what you wish of me.”

  
“I- yes. Please.”

* * *

Gob carries the shovel because Nova’s still on crutches, and he refuses to ask Charon, who takes point with his shotgun braced across his front. He’s back in full armour, has helped Gob and Nova fashion chest plates from ragged leather they acquired from Moira. Nova has a pistol tucked into her belt and in a brand new holster at Gob’s hip sits a 10mm which he just about remembers how to shoot.

  
He has not left Megaton in more than fifteen years, and the Wasteland is a scary place.

  
“I will protect you,” Charon told him as he helped Gob get strapped into his new armour. “You will not need to use it. The grave is not far.”

  
It isn’t. They leave Megaton’s gates and loop around the perimeter, climbing a bed of rocks until Gob can see Springvale beyond, the ruins of a pre-war town he barely got chance to take in as he limped back on Moriarty’s heels. He’d narrowly avoided having a leash attached to the collar still tight around his neck, but Colin’s hand on the detonator in his coat pocket had done enough to silence any thoughts of fleeing.

  
“Here,” Charon says, pointing. The burial mound is unmarked, but there’s still a clear shift in soil. Gob gets Nova comfortable on the ground and braces the shovel against the dirt.

  
“I can dig,” Charon offers, but Gob shakes his head tersely. This is something he needs to do himself, for him and Nova. He owes it to the both of them.

  
“I got it.” The blade of the shovel breaks the ground, and Gob tosses the dirt over his shoulder, establishes a rhythm. It’s soothing, almost, the lull of it, and by the time he has uncovered a cloth sack he vaguely recognises from one of the Saloon’s deliveries the sun is beginning to set below the horizon.

  
Charon reaches over to help haul the body out of the hole and Gob lets him. The weight of it is staggeringly light, sending them both lilting over in surprise. They dump the cloth sack a few feet away, breathing hard.

  
“Let me unwrap it,” Nova pipes up. Her voice is still shaky from withdrawal and her knees won’t hold her weight but she manages to crawl unaided, gets a grip on the hessian and _pulls_. Neither of them miss that she says _i_ _t_  and not _him_.

  
The sack unrolls too slowly for either of their liking, and Colin Moriarty’s corpse lands face-up on the dirt floor, a hole blasted in the hinge of his jaw and his eye sockets gaping empty. He’s still wearing that damn leather jacket and pants but his boots have been removed and most of his grey hair has fallen out and litters the inside of the sack. Some of it still clings to the exposed bone of his skull, dirty grey and stinking.

  
“Fuck,” Nova hisses, recoiling at the stench. Gob’s ruined nose can hardly discern smells anymore but it knows this one, can pick out decomposition a mile off. After all, he’s had to endure the skin and cartilage sloughing off his own face, and that isn’t something you forget in a hurry, not even after everything.

  
They stand staring for a good few minutes, until Nova flips the cloth back over Moriarty’s face, wrinkling her nose in disgust. Gob goes to her and places a hand on her shoulder, says, “It’s not okay, what he did. It’s not, and it never will be. But he’s dead.” What he doesn’t say: _it wasn’t him_.

  
“We should burn it,” Nova grunts decisively, reading his mind. “Just in case.”

  
Gob brought matches in his pocket, and the hessian catches the flames easily. The three of them watch as Moriarty’s body burns, blazing bright as the sunset, an uneasy peace settling over the hillside, Gob’s hand still on Nova’s back and Charon pressing into his side.


End file.
